


Natblida

by assassinslover



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, No one dies don't worry, i started this close to the beginning of the season so parts of canon will be ignored, including what you're all thinking of, sort of a study in Grounder culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6253573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assassinslover/pseuds/assassinslover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ON HOLD - got mad writer's block. If anyone has any ideas feel free to message me.</p><p>Clarke remembers the old history books on The Ark, the ones that humanity had managed to save, remembers learning about battles thousands of years old, and how the commanders would sit on a high hill above the chosen battlefield and watch the men below fight and die for them. Lexa is no such commander. As Clarke watches her charge down the hill at the head of her vanguard, she wishes fervently that that was one battle tactic that had survived the reformation of society. </p><p>Lexa is badly injured following a battle and Clarke must help her navigate the inevitable fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to update this on a reasonable schedule, but I'm having trouble writing personal pieces in general, and I write for a living, which means writing for pleasure isn't always enticing. I've also been away from fanfic for almost a year (case in point, AMAIEC, if you're waiting for that to update I'm trying).

The tenuous peace snaps. War descends like a pack of ravenous wolves. Azgeda marches, and Trikru meets the call. Clarke remembers the old history books on The Ark, the ones that humanity had managed to save, remembers learning about battles thousands of years old, and how the commanders would sit on a high hill above the chosen battlefield and watch the men below fight and die for them. Lexa is no such commander. As Clarke watches her charge down the hill at the head of her vanguard, she wishes fervently that that was one battle tactic that had survived the reformation of society. Clarke puts her heels to her horse and follows the trail of dust down to where the fighting is thickest. Her confused guards ride after her. Broken arrows and fallen weapons litter the ground between the bodies of the dead and wounded. Equally covered as they are in dirt and blood, there is no way to tell who is friend and who is foe.

Her beast is trained for battle. Clarke is not. The weight of her borrowed sword feels awkward in her hand, and it's a horrible, distant realization to know that she'd be more comfortable with a gun. She slashes wildly, the blade cutting through fur and leather into the skin and bone beneath. There's no remorse behind the death she causes now; the art of killing is a part of her. Around her the desperate cries of men and women block out all other noise. They make it hard to think, and the press of bodies almost impossible to see, but Clarke spots Lexa, tall on her horse, and digs her heels into the flanks of her own mount, forcing it forward, her blade helping to clear a path.

An arrow zips past Clarke's face, scarcely a breath from her cheek. She feels its sharp edge graze her skin and clip the tip of her ear. The pain, at least the worst of it, won't come until later, not until her adrenaline fades and exhaustion finds her. If she's alive, that is. Hands grab at her legs and arms, trying to pull her down from her perch, and the indiscriminate volleys of arrows from above make her trek all the more dangerous. All Clarke can think is thank God the Grounders don't have guns, or else things would be far, far worse.

Yards still separate her from Lexa when she sees the first arrow puncture the commander's shoulder. It jerks Lexa back, but she seems to not feel it, reaching up with one hand to pull the head free and carelessly toss it aside. Too far to see the true extent of the injury, Clarke jabs her horse with her heels again, letting out a wordless cry of frustration that leaves her throat raw. The second arrow catches Lexa in the stomach, easily piercing her armour. The next takes her in the knee. It's then that Clarke realizes that somehow the tide has turned. They're losing, and badly. The Azgeda army is larger than anticipated, and they close in from both sides, trapping the Trikru in the valley.

Horns blast out signals that Clarke doesn't understand. She lets her horse have its head, letting it charge through the bodies keeping her from Lexa. The commander's vanguard rallies, herding their leader towards the treeline, towards safety. Their mouths move in shouts that Clarke can't hear. She's lost her own guard, somewhere behind her where the fighting still rages. It's nothing short of a massacre.

A sharp prick in her side steals her breath for an instant, a flash of pain followed by a bloom of heat. She ignores it, closing the distance between herself and a swaying Lexa, feeling nothing but the tightness in her chest and the anxious sickness churning in her stomach. Around her Trikru scatter, responding to the cries of the battle horns. Clarke feels her horse stumble and suddenly she's flying, weightless for an instant before her body thuds into the ground. The impact jars her and she tastes dirt and blood in her mouth as her lip splits and her teeth clamp down on her tongue.

She struggles to find her feet, only to have her breath stolen by a lancing fire in her side. It's only then she notices the arrow shaft sticking out from between her ribs. She snaps it easily, but the vibration makes her gasp and grit her teeth against the pain. She powers on, holding one hand to the side and clutching her sword in the other. Between the trees she can make out Lexa leaning dangerously to one side in the saddle and passes into the treeline just as Lexa topples to the ground. A cry is on her lips but she can hardly draw air into her lungs. Lexa's guards react instantly. Clarke staggers towards them.

Someone notices and shouts her name. Clarke lets her sword drop from weak fingers, falling into friendly hands. The same someone who had noticed her first slings one of her arms around his shoulders and half carries her over to where Lexa lies motionless on the soft forest floor, pale and quiet. Clarke looks for any sign of red, for any indication of the life seeping out of Lexa, but all she sees is black; black paint, black armour... black blood. Clarke doesn't have the clarity to question.

With no time for proper treatment, wounds can only be hastily bound and a makeshift stretcher cobbled together to carry the commander. Clarke rides double with one of Lexa's vanguard, leaning back against a body that reeks of sweat and fear. There's shadows at the corner of her vision and invisible weights on her limbs. She watches through half-lidded eyes as the gurney bearing Lexa's prone from is dragged along the ground by her horse, one of her warriors holding the beast's reins. Clarke can see its sides heaving and is reminded of her own desperate need for more air than she can get. Weakness washes over her in a wave. She sags against the body behind her, sucking in a painful breath.

“Rest, Wanheda,” an unfamiliar voice says. Clarke closes her eyes and lets the darkness find her.

 

When she wakes up she's in a tent, her tent. It's the pain in her side that's pulled her back towards the land of the living. Exploring hands find a wad of bandaging and clean linens. She can feel a soft pillow beneath her head and heavy blankets clinging to her hips. She cracks open her eyes to candlelight and the gentle glow of daylight through the canvas walls. Clarke tries to sit but the strain on her wounded flesh forces her back down. Her pained gasp brings a healer to her side, a Grounder she doesn't recognize. There's a poking and prodding at her side and a hand to her forehead that Clarke brushes aside in tired irritation.

It probably means something that the first words out of her mouth are, “Lexa, where's Lexa? Is she okay?” It's hard to speak with her throat so dry and her lips cracked. As she forms the words the bottom slips again and she tastes blood in her mouth. She licks it away.

“Heda is being tended to, _Klark kom Skaikru_. Rest.”

“I need to see her,” Clarke says, already making another attempt to sit up despite the fresh stinging in her side. Firm hands on her shoulders push her back down. Clarke glares up at her nurse. She's young, and bares no scars or tattoos, at least none that Clarke can see.

“She is in good hands,” the woman says. “Your people are here and your mother is helping treat the wounded. I saw her heal Heda with my own eyes.” Clarke settles back, unwillingly, but it gets the hands off of her shoulders. The healer adjusts the blankets, pulling them up around her chin. Clarke fixes a neutral look on her face.

“Who else is here?” she asks.

“Your chancellor. I don't know anything more.” Satisfied that Clarke doesn't intend to move, the healer clears her things and ducks out through the tent flap, leaving Clarke mercifully alone. While she waits for the pain in her side to lessen she glances around the inside of her tent. Her gear is stacked in a corner, neat and looking clean. On the far side there's a small table with a stool and a pitcher of what Clarke assumes to be water, a small wooden cup next to it.

When she's sure that no one will come barging into her tent and demand that she remain in bed, Clarke slowly props her elbows beneath her and raises herself up. Her side pulls unpleasantly. She flinches, but doesn't stop until she's fully sitting, leaning back on shaking arms. She closes her eyes, breathing slow and steady until she has the energy to swing her legs to the side and plant her feet firmly on the ground. Standing is a good deal harder. Clarke thanks whatever god is listening for the tent pole within arms reach that she wraps her hand around to use for support as she hauls herself up. The pain that flashes through her side makes the corners of her vision blacken. She teeters precariously until the flare up fades away, and staggers with short, uneven steps towards the table.

The water is tepid, but it feels like silk pouring down Clarke's throat. She drinks greedily, foregoing the empty cup to tip the pitcher into her mouth. Water dribbles down her chin and drips onto the long shift that is her only clothing. When her thirst is finally sated she heaves in a desperate breath that makes her side stretch and twinge and leans against the table. Behind where the pitcher was sitting is a small plate bearing a hunk of bread. She tears at it with desperate fingers, stuffing the soft meat of it into her mouth. It takes a good deal of will to leave some of it for later, and even more to make herself leave the table and chair to shuffle towards her gear.

Dressing is... an interesting experience. Clarke quickly learns which ways she can move and which ways she can't. Getting on her pants and boots is the easy part. It's sliding her shirt over her head that poses a problem. She grits her teeth against a grimace and manages, releasing a strained breath once she's fully clothed. For a moment she can do nothing but stand, one hand wrapped around a tent pole and the other pressed against her side. When she thinks she can walk she stands as tall as she can and steps out of her tent.

The camp is pitifully small. Only a handful of tents have been set up, Clarke's included, and a large cobbling together of three or four that makes up what must be the medical station. There's no sign of Lexa's. Small, hasty cook fires are scattered about. From the look of it, Clarke is fortunate that someone had the foresight to set up her tent rather than simply stick her in with the rest of the wounded. Probably her mother's doing. Those Trikru who had managed to escape the slaughter unharmed are doing their best to finish setting the camp, and make sure that there's enough food and water for everyone. The people Clarke sees as she slowly makes her way towards the healer's tent pay her no attention, and Clarke is grateful. She only has one thought in her head, and that is to make sure that Lexa is all right.

Except that two very burly guards won't let Clarke in to see her.

“I am the ambassador to Skaikru and you _will_ let me past,” Clarke demands, trying to make her voice sound stronger than she feels. “I need-”

“To rest,” a firm, familiar voice says behind her. “And so does Lexa.” Clarke whirls, coming face to face with her mother. Exhaustion is written plain into the lines of Abby's face, and the rag in her hands is stained dark with blood. The rusty tinge reassures Clarke that none of it is Lexa's.

“I need to see her,” Clarke says, and this time her voice shakes. Abby looks at her side and makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. Clarke is too weak to fight the hand that wraps around her elbow and pulls her over to an empty pallet. Her mother peels her shirt away from her side and lifts it with a heavy sigh. Clarke glances down to see that somehow, without her noticing, she tore open her stitches.

“You're lucky, you know,” Abby says. She carefully unwraps Clarke's bandages. “That arrow nearly pierced your lung.” Clarke's wise enough to say nothing. She eyes the stitches her mother prepares warily. At a gesture, she lifts her shirt up and lets it hang around her neck, one arm still in a sleeve. Abby cleans flesh blood off her side. Clarke winces and sets her jaw, but bears her mother's treatment silently.

“Is she okay?” she asks softly. Abby's hesitation doesn't make the knot in Clarke's stomach any looser. “Mom.”

“She's alive,” Abby says. “Take from that what you will.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“She was hurt,” Abby says, wrapping fresh bandages around a wad of precious gauze pressed firmly to Clarke's side. “She still hasn't woken up.” Abby meets Clarke's gaze, her own full of pain and regret. “It's been two days.”

Clarke can't think of anything to say other than, “ _What?_ ” It comes out a strained whisper. Her throat is dry again. She needs water. The camp is too small for it to have been two days. “Where is everyone? What happened?”

“You know what happened, Clarke,” Abby says, and Clarke does. They had lost. Trikru had lost. Lexa's hurt, and badly, maybe even dying, and from the look of the camp outside the camp walls not many people had made it off that battlefield alive. Or else they had fled to some other safe haven. Clarke wishes, desperately, that it's the latter, and that one skirmish hasn't completely crippled Lexa's forces. Something in her gut tells her that's not the case. Clarke's gaze goes again to the blocked off section of the tent, to the weary guards standing watch to make sure no one disturbs their commander.

“What do we do now?” Clarke asks. Abby discards her dirty tools and shrugs her shoulders.

“That's not for us to decide,” she says. Clarke slowly leans back on the cot, fighting to keep her discomfort from showing on her face. Her mother doesn't need to know the extent to which her injury is bothering her, but it's easier to breathe lying down.

She changes the topic. “Who else is here?”

“The ones who know not all Grounders are the same,” Abby replies. It's not a reassuring answer. Exhaustion is creeping back into Clarke's bones and she hates it. She can't remember the last time she got a decent night's sleep. The closest she came was the time spent in Polis, before the escape of the Azgeda queen and her son. Before her army's march. Before the slaughter. Clarke listens to the clinking of tools, to the mutters of sleeping wounded around her and the soft voices of the Grounder healers tending to them. Abby lists off names. There's one missing. An important one.

“What about Bellamy?” Abby sighs and doesn't answer. Clarke stares at her. “Mom.”

“He stayed behind,” Abby says without looking up in a very, very low voice. “He trusted a Grounder and now people are dead and a war has started. We don't know where he is. When he didn't come with us, Marcus and I thought he stayed behind with the others, but they haven't seen him either. He's gone, Clarke. Vanished. The same way you did.” There's a pain behind those words. A bitterness. An accusation. One that Clarke isn't ready to face. They wouldn't understand. What she had done... Those ghosts will haunt her for the rest of her life. She knows it. She couldn't stay. Maybe it's the same for Bell.

But still, an apology lingers on her tongue, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She chokes on the words she wants to stay.

“You need to go back to your tent,” Abby tells her. “And you need to rest. If Lexa wakes up you'll be the first to know, I promise.”

“When,” Clarke says with the lightest of frowns. “When she wakes up.”

Abby's eyes close and she sighs. She looks so tired in that moment that Clarke feels guilty for every little thing, every harsh word, every slight, every act of rebellion. Both look and emotion pass in the space of a few seconds.

“When,” Abby repeats. “Now go. Do you need help?”

“No,” Clarke replies, but it's a lie. She accepts her mother's shoulder when standing proves to take more strength than her body can handle, but as soon as she's on her feet she shrugs the touch off. She holds her mother's gaze, trying to think of something else to say, but no words come. Instead she tries and fails for a smile and limps away. The walk back to her tent feels like miles rather than yards and her side is on fire when she finally reaches it. Fresh food and water have been brought. Clarke ignores the food, but takes the pitcher to her bed, drinking her fill before leaving it within easy reach. Her mother would say she needs to eat to regain her strength, but Clarke's appetite is long gone. There's not even a shred of hunger in her belly, just an emptiness to match the one in her chest.

Sleep doesn't come easy, it rarely does, and when it finds Clarke there are the nightmares; the faces and screams of the people she's killed. The people she failed to save. There's a new face in her dreams this time. One that strikes a whole new chord of fear deep in Clarke's heart. Lexa, stuck in a coma that she won't wake up from, motionless when Clarke screams at her, when Clarke grabs her shoulders and shakes her, when Clarke's palm smacks her cheek. It's like screaming into a void.

Something touches her shoulder and she shouts herself awake.

“Shit, Clarke, calm down! It's me!” Clarke knows the voice, but she still can't quite get her eyes to open.

“Raven?”

“Nearly broke my nose. Nice to see you too, princess.” When Clarke's eyes come into focus she sees Raven sitting on a stool by her bedside, obviously keeping watch, with one hand over her nose. She looks years older, with tired, bloodshot eyes and shadows of exhaustion on her face. She can barely manage to smile. “That was some dream you were having.”

“Yeah, those happen a lot,” Clarke says with an edge to her voice. She's bone tired and her side is laced with pain. Squirming about during her nightmare had only made it worse.

“Easy with the attitude,” Raven says. “You're not the only one having trouble sleeping at night.” Clarke sighs, easing herself back into her pillow. “Abby wanted me to watch you. Make sure you don't go roaming around the camp again.”

“Your bedside manner could use some improvement,” Clarke grinds out through clenched teeth. Raven just laughs and stands. Clarke doesn't miss the flash of pain across her face when she stands or the stiffness in her walk, the way her hand hovers around her hip. She crosses the tent in awkward half strides.

“One of the Grounders left some kind of tea for you to help with the pain. Personally, I'd take a nice dose of morphine over some herby soup, but.” Raven brings her the cup and holds it out until Clarke takes it from her. “Drink up.” Clarke sniffs delicately at the concoction. It smells all right, but Clarke's had run-ins with Grounder medicine before. She plugs her nose with one hand and drinks it down in one go. The aftertaste it leaves is no better than the real thing. At least Clarke knows it'll work. Or at least she hopes it will.

“You don't have to sit here and watch me, you know,” she says. “I promise I won't go wandering around the camp.”

“It's not like I have anything better to do. Besides, you were gone for three months. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Like what?” Clarke asks wearily.

“Like where the hell were you for three months? And what the hell is going on here? No one's telling us anything. Half the Grounders won't even look at us. It's like they think whatever this is is our fault.

“I know about as much as you,” Clarke says. The tea's a swift medicine. She's already feeling drunk and sleepy, her words slurring together. “But maybe... we are to blame.” Raven scoffs. “No, listen.” Clarke blinks her eyes to focus them. “Our people moved into Mount Weather. We shouldn't have.”

“The Grounders set a trap,” Raven says sharply. “They're just as much at fault.”

Clarke shakes her head. “The Azgeda set a trap,” she says. “Not all Grounders are the same. They're trying to help us. Lexa _wants_ to help us.”

“Really? Because from where I'm sitting it looks like they are, or did I just imagine Lexa leaving us all to die?”

“You don't understand,” Clarke says as strongly as she's able. “I didn't either, not for a long time... But I'm starting to.” Something in Raven's face changes. The anger fades. She sighs and runs a hand over her face. “Still need to talk?”

“No,” Raven says. This time when Clarke falls asleep it's mercifully free of nightmares. When she wakes again it's dark outside the tent walls, but there's a lantern on the table that hurts Clarke's eyes to look at and hands prodding at her side. She's too tired to pretend it doesn't hurt and winces when her bandaging is peeled back and pulls at her stitches.

“Stop fidgeting,” Abby says.

Clarke immediately stills. “Is Lexa-”

“No, she's not awake,” Abby says gently, “but her condition is as stable as we can make it. If we had better supplies...” She presses a fresh bandage onto Clarke's side and tapes gauze over it before pulling Clarke's shirt back down over her stomach.

“What do we do now?” Clarke asks. She feels small. Small, and afraid, and tired of having the world on her shoulders.

Abby sighs. She slouches on the stool next to Clarke's bed and redoes her ponytail. It's been so long since Clarke's seen her mom with her hair down that she's forgotten what it looks like. It's gotten longer, that much Clarke can tell. She can't help but wonder how much her hair has grown since her and the others were sent down to the surface. In a few quick motions Abby has her hair back up, and she looks like normal again.

“We wait,” she says. “We wait for the commander to wake up. We wait to hear from Indra. We wait for the army to find us. That's all we can do, Clarke, is wait.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an endgame, just a vague series of plot points I'm trying to connect. Again, I'll update when I can.

Clarke hates waiting. And God is there a lot of it. Over the next few days a handful more Grounders trickle into the camp, some wounded, all of them dirty and tired. The injured ones are turned over to the care of Abby and the other healers. For the most part, Clarke is alone. Raven must have been seriously coerced into sitting with her that time, because Clarke doesn't hear a damn thing from her after, or from whoever else is there. She takes to pacing around her tent, needing to work out her worry and frustration but not wanting to risk being berated for stretching her wound. She knows she needs to move to heal, even though it hurts, and makes her laps with one hand pressed to her side.

It's almost a week before a Grounder she doesn't recognize brings her the news that Lexa is awake. Clarke's sure she almost breaks her stitches again when she jumps to grab her clothes and dress herself. Her side aches from the suddenness of her movements, but there is nothing in the world that's going to stop Clarke from seeing with her own eyes that Lexa is okay. She makes herself walk across the distance between her tent and the makeshift hospital. The noise from inside easily penetrates the flimsy canvas walls. It seems the news has spread quickly. Lexa's guards hold their weapons tightly, keeping back a small press of worried people desperate for words of comfort from their commander.

They let her pass without a challenge.

Clarke doesn’t know what she expected to see, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t Lexa lying in a makeshift bed beneath a pile of furs. It wasn’t her hair splayed across the pillow beneath her head, lose in a way that Clarke has rarely seen. It wasn’t her looking as pale as a corpse, hooked up to equipment that Skaikru had somehow managed to bring when they came. She wasn’t expecting the tightness in her chest and the sudden burning in her eyes that makes her want to cry. 

She wasn’t expecting Lexa to open her eyes and stare right at her, and she wasn’t expecting all the emotions she can see in their depths. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says. Her voice is weak and raspy. She sounds nothing like the Lexa Clarke knows. Nothing like the commander of thirteen different peoples. Her gaze drops to Clarke’s side, where her hand is still pressed to her sore wound. “You’re hurt.” 

Clarke moves her hand, letting it hang uselessly at her side. “It’s nothing. How-“ The words stick in her throat. She swallows and locks her lips, and forces herself to take a seat on the stool by Lexa’s bedside. “It’s good to see you awake,” she says instead. The safer path. Lexa’s breathing is already growing laboured. Clarke can’t imagine the pain she feels. She touches her own side. Well… almost can’t. With a word she sends one of Lexa’s guards to fetch her mother. Other healers may be closer, but Clarke knows it’s better not to expose Lexa’s weakness if it can be helped. War with the Azgeda won’t be the only threat she faces now, of that Clarke is sure. 

The minutes between the summons and Abby’s arrival stretch into thick silence. Lexa’s eyes close again, and the only way Clarke can tell she’s still awake is the ruggedness with which her chest moves. She’s something close to grateful when her ,other finally arrives to break the tension. She takes one look at Clarke before turning away to attend to Lexa. 

“I told you you would be the first person to know,” she says. 

Lexa's eyes flicker open, her weak gaze finding Clarke once more. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Clarke's not sure she wants to hear anything Lexa has to say to begin with, but she definitely doesn't around her mother. Clarke forces herself to look away when Abby pulls Lexa's furs down, catching a glimpse of bare shoulders. She stares at her boots while Abby fusses. Three injuries for three arrows.

“Be honest with me,” Lexa says. “What is the extent of my injuries?”

Clarke recognizes Abby's tone of voice, all professional. “The hit to your shoulder was superficial. The other two are... a bigger concern. This one didn't hit anything vital, but your leg... The arrowhead lodged under your kneecap. I removed it as carefully as I could, but there's going to be scarring and wounds like this...”

Clarke can't help but look up, disbelief seizing tightly in her chest, and she almost instantly regrets it. Lexa body has gone stiff. A bandeau around her chest hides her breasts, and there's a square bandage pressed to her shoulder and another to her stomach, but other than that she's naked, her blankets caught across her hips. The knee of her left leg is thickly swaddled in bandages that Abby is slowly unwrapping. The length of her leg is bared for Clarke's unwillingly wandering eyes. Clarke feels her face warming and quickly glances away again. She watches her mother's hands expose the seriousness of Lexa's wound. Leg damage in general is never good, but this is on a whole different level.

“Therapy would help, if we had any therapists,” Abby continues. “There's only so much I can do for you.”

“I have been injured before,” is Lexa's reply, but it lacks the strength to make her words carry any real meaning.

“Not like this,” Abby says. Lexa looks at Clarke again, searching for support, for affirmation that she'll come through this no worse for wear, but, staring at the mess of Lexa's knee, those aren't things that Clarke can give. “Right now the only thing I can do is tell you to rest. Clarke.” The child inside her reacts instantly to the tone of her mother's voice, the one that commands her to follow along.

“Clarke can stay,” Lexa says in a voice that says Clarke _will_ stay. Abby looks at her, then at Clarke, an emotion Clarke can't read in her eyes, then packs up her things and leaves the two of them alone. Well, relatively speaking. Clarke catches a glimpse of the people waiting to see their commander as the flap separating Lexa's bed from the rest is pushed open. Clarke shifts in her seat. She feels Lexa's steady gaze on her. When she forces herself to meet it, Lexa's eyes are half closed. There's still no colour in her face.

“Well?” Clarke asks.

“Tell me the truth, Clarke,” Lexa says. “About my leg.” Clarke remembers the bullet lodged in Raven's spine, the surgery, the screams. This is different, she tells herself as she limps around to Lexa's other side, and with a nod from the commander moves the furs aside to undo her mother's careful work and properly examine the wound. She might have her mother's affinity for medicine, but she doesn't have all her knowledge, and there's only so much she can tell beneath the dried blood and swollen, bruised flesh.

“I don't know,” she says, and it's an honest answer. “It's so swollen it's hard to tell. With Raven she... We'll just have to wait and see.” Lexa sighs. Her walls are dropping. Clarke knows the feeling. She's almost too tired to keep hers up, too. Clarke wraps her knee back up, careful to keep from touching the rest of Lexa's skin.

“Your friend's spine was injured, yes?” Lexa asks. “This is different. An arrow is not a bullet. A knee is not a spine.”

Clarke hesitates. “No, it's not the same.” But it is. She fixes Lexa's blankets. “I need to go.” Lexa's hand snaps out, slim fingers wrapping around Clarke's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Don't leave yet,” Lexa says.

“Lexa...”

The hand falls away. Lexa's eyes slip shut, her breathing evens out. Clarke swallows over the lump in her throat and slips out through the tent flap. She catches her mother's gaze and feels it follow her as she winds through the sleeping wounded towards the front of the tent. Clarke hates waiting. And, _fuck_ , is there a lot of it.

 

Word finally arrives from Indra, leading a band of weary warriors to the ramshackle camp. She walks, her head high, but her right arm is in a dirty sling and even Clarke can tell that her confidence is made of glass. Those camp dwellers who spot friends and family come rushing out and the trail following Indra falls away, until it's only her left, striding straight towards where Clarke is lingering at the entrance of her tent, gripping a pole for support. She tries to stand a bit straighter when the warrior approaches, pressing a hand to her side to negate some of the pain from stretching it.

“It is good to see you alive, Wanheda,” Indra greets. She offers Clarke her uninjured arm. Clarke clasps it firmly.

“You, too,” she says. The handshake drops.

“Where is the commander?” Indra asks. Something must flicker across Clarke's face, because Indra's grows concerned. Clarke jerks her chin towards the hospital tent.

“Is she…”

“Alive,” Clarke says. She bites back the word barely. “She’s hurt, but she might be awake. If not, find my mother.”

“Her injury?” Indra asks. “I did not see her fall.”

“Its…” But what can she truly say? “She’s alive. That’s what matters.”

Indra nods. “Then we will speak later, Wanheda.”

Clarke nods and watches her stride to the healers tent and disappear inside it. Her heart aches. Her mind aches. Everything aches. She wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep, for a week, a month a year, but there are too many things happening and she knows rest is not a luxury she will be allowed. Not yet. She retreats into her tent to catch what little sleep she can in between the nightmares and the worry she has for Lexa that she doesn’t want to admit is there, simmering under the surface of her skin and threatening to set her on fire at any passing moment. Sleep is slow to come, but it does, eventually.

 

Lexa summons her the next day, and Clarke answers her call. There’s more colour in the commander’s face, and though she needs the aid of pillows, at least she’s sitting up when Clarke shows herself into her little makeshift room. Lexa has no smile for her, only a determination in her eyes.

“Heda?” Clarke asks.

“My people need to see me, Clarke,” Lexa says, “but I can’t move on my own. I need you to help me.” Clarke wants to ask why, but she already knows the answer. She would do the same were she in Lexa’s position, even with her mother so close by. There’s a bond between them, one Clarke can feel but won’t acknowledge. All she does is nod. “Abby says she will allow a small excursion is you agree to stay by my side. I cannot be seen as weak, do you understand? Not now.”

“Are you sure?” she hears herself ask. “Your leg- you shouldn't be walking around.”

“I need to do this, Clarke.” And maybe it's the look in her eyes or the way she says Clarke's name, but Clarke hears herself agreeing. And Lexa just looks at her.

“Okay,” Clarke says, “let's get you up first.” Lexa nods, looking for all the world like a child in a woman's body as she waits for Clarke's support. Each touch feels like she's going to break her, but she pulls down the blankets and guides Lexa's legs over the side of the bed. Someone dressed her, and thank God for that because Clarke doesn't think she can handle seeing Lexa's body. The thick wad of bandaging around her knee sticks out even under the pants she's been given. Clarke tries not to touch it. She slings Lexa's arm over her shoulder, and then it's make or break. Lexa's face is already laced with pain.

“Good leg first,” Clarke says. Lexa nods, and slowly, very slowly, she puts her good foot on the floor and leans her weight on it. Clarke bears the brunt even though it pulls uncomfortably on her side. She hears the sharp inhale, sees Lexa grit her teeth as she tries to unbend her bad knee. It only goes so far, leaving Lexa balancing on one foot and the tips of her toes. “Don't strain it,” Clarke says.

“I can't walk like this,” Lexa hisses out, sounding frustrated and hurt.

“Lean on me,” Clarke says, and Lexa does. She's heavy, and Clarke almost stumbles under her weight. She swears and straightens and hears Lexa's pained, shallow breathing. “Are you really sure about this?”

“I need to,” Lexa says again.

Clarke bites back a sigh. “Okay. One step at a time.” It's a long, painful process. Lexa can hardly put any weight on her leg and almost all of the effort falls to Clarke. Even the few steps from the bed to the curtain that shuts Lexa off from the rest of the tent are borderline agonizing. “Are you ready?” Lexa nods, and Clarke guides the two of them out into the main body of the tent. Most of those within are too injured to be aware of anything outside of themselves, but once the whispers start there's no stopping them.

“Outside,” Lexa says. She's already trying to draw herself up to full height despite her injury, trying to lean less on Clarke and walk more on her own. Clarke does what she can to accommodate, but there's only so much she support she can relinquish without risking Lexa falling. They leave the tent behind them and take small, staggering steps into the open ground before them. Lexa's people notice her almost immediately. They start to crowd, to push and shove each other to get the best view, but none of them dare venture too close. Clarke's shoulders start to burn with the effort of holding Lexa upright. The commander watches her people gather, her spine straight, her head held high. Clarke grips her hand, feels the sweat on Lexa's palm, the fragile strength in her fingers.

Lexa raises her free hand, and with that gesture silences the crowd instantly. When she speaks, her voice is strong, but Clarke can still hear the faintest tremble in her words. “ _Yo Heda ste fis op_!” The Grounders whoop and cheer. Lexa's growing heavier, but Clarke knows better than to try and hoist her up more. “Your worries may be laid to rest! We will muster our forces and Azgeda will pay for their treachery!” The roar is almost deafening. Clarke spots her mother in the crowd, looking at her like it's her fault that Lexa is out of bed. Clarke meets her glare steadily, then turns herself and Lexa around and helps the commander limp back into the tent.

Lexa maintains her composure until the second the curtain separating her bed from the others falls shut behind them. She buckles and Clarke almost falls as well, trying to keep her upright. Abby barges in just behind them and takes Lexa's free arm, throwing it over her shoulders. Together, her and Clarke manage, somehow, to get Lexa back into her bed. There's a sheen of sweat on the commander's skin and the colour has drained from her face. Clarke collapses onto the stool, her shoulders and side aching even worse now that they're free of the burden of Lexa's weight. For the moment her mother ignores her, checking Lexa's knee. Clarke presses a hand to her side, bent over, until Abby moves to her.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she hisses, pulling Clarke's shirt up to check that she hasn't popped her stitches. Thankfully, despite the pain, everything is fine.

“Lexa insisted,” she says, easing her shirt back down and glancing over her mother's shoulder to where Lexa is already unconscious again. “It wasn't my idea.”

Abby passes a hand over her face, sighing heavily. “It's already looking like she won't be able to use that leg, not properly, and you letting her stand on it before she's ready is only going to make it worse.”

“Can't you fix it?” Clarke asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Even if I had full access to state of the art medical equipment there's only so much I can do,” Abby says. “Some things even medicine can't fix.” She squeezes Clarke's shoulder and leaves them in peace. For a time, Clarke sits hunched over on the stool by Lexa's bedside, watching the commander sleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes Clarke forgets Lexa's only a few years older than her. It's a long time before she leaves the commander's tent, slowly shuffling her way back to her own. Raven's the only one there, setting up a pallet on the floor.

“Don't be stupid,” Clarke says through a tired sigh. “You can sleep in my bed.”

“You sure?” Raven asks, straightening up with her hands braced against the small of her back, barely hiding a wince.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, making her way to the table.

“Lexa doesn't look so good,” Raven says. Clarke pours them both something to drink. “Is it her leg?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says.

“I can lend a hand if you need me to. If things get that bad.”

“Maybe,” Clarke replied. She glances at Raven's brace and tries to imagine Lexa wearing one, holding back a sigh. “Maybe. I'm... going to sleep. Are you...?”

“My sleep is screwed up enough without going to bed in the middle of the day,” Raven replies. “I'll keep anyone from bothering you.”

Clarke's shoulders slump, the idea of peace and quiet for _once_ the best thing she's heard in... hell if she can remember. The smile doesn't come easy to her, but it comes, and Raven seems to appreciate it. Clarke leaves her and gratefully climbs into her bed. Everything hurts from holding up Lexa, and as soon as she's on top of her furs she relaxes completely, feeling herself turn into dead weight. She's out in minutes. When she wakes up later she has no idea how long it's been or if anyone tried to see her, but Raven is still sitting at the table. It looks like she's gone through Clarke's things as well, because the small notebook that's somehow managed to survive three months in the wilderness is spread out before her. Clarke's sore, but she hoists herself up and pads over to stand at Raven's shoulder, pouring herself a drink for her dry throat.

“What're you doing?” she asks, peering down at the page Raven's been scribbling on.

“Abby stopped by,” Raven says. “Told me about Lexa's leg. Thought I'd see if I could come up with a brace for her leg, too. I mean, if I can build one to work for me, then...” She grins, and Clarke sees a glimmer of her old friend in it. “Hey, you think you can measure her leg for me? I won't be able to actually make anything without knowing the dimensions.”

“Uh-that's kind of an awkward thing to ask.”

“Really?” Raven says, “because you two look pretty chummy.”

“It's complicated,” Clarke says, and it sounds automatic because it is, but it's the truth. It is complicated. She just can't say how. She hardly even knows herself.

“That's your excuse?” Raven says. “It's complicated? Come on, Clarke. You might be able to bullshit everyone else, but not me.”

“I don't know,” Clarke says with a heavy sigh. She leans on the table, one hand pressed to her side. What she wouldn't give for proper painkillers. She changes the subject. “I thought you weren't going to let anyone in.”

“I said I wasn't going to let anyone _bother_ you,” Raven says. “And no one did. At least not enough to wake you up.” Clarke peeks under her shirt and sighs at the fresh bandage she finds. “She was worried, Clarke,” Raven says softly. “We all were. Don't blame her for checking up on you.”

“I'm not,” Clarke says. “Did anything happen while I was asleep?”

“Aside from you snoring? 'Cos I'm pretty sure it was loud enough to count as an event.”

Clarke blushes and scowls. “I don't snore!” she says, to which Raven replies by faking an obnoxiously loud snore, hands pressed together and cheek pressed to them. “I'm serious.”

“No,” Raven says, dropping the act. “Nothing happened.”

Clarke sighs and throws her head back to drain the last of the water from her cup. “I'm going to go see Lexa.”

“Better be careful, Clarke,” Raven says. “People might start to suspect.”

“Suspect what?” Clarke asks. “There's nothing to-it's just-” Raven cocks a brow and Clarke relents, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. She leaves without another word. When she steps out of the tent the first thing that she notices is the smell of rain on the air. Clarke fills her lungs with the sweet wet scent and closes her eyes. She's been on the ground long enough to know that a storm is coming. The dark clouds hovering past the treetops confirm as much. A cool breeze caresses her face and tugs at her hair and clothes. Clarke lets it, for a moment, revelling in the brief quiet.

Her first instinct is to go to see Lexa, but no doubt the commander is sleeping, and Raven's warning, if that's what it was as opposed to a joke, rings loudly in her ears. She knows exactly what Raven was referring to, but whatever might have happened between herself and Lexa, well... There's more important things going on right now. Clarke shakes the thoughts away and opts for a walk around the camp instead. It's grown some since it was first set up, but the population seems to have settled. It's a miracle that Azgeda haven't found and wiped them out, and while Clarke is thankful for that, she can't help but feel wary as well. Nia is up to something, she's sure of it, and she doesn't trust Roan as far as she can throw him, even if he _is_ sitting in a cell back in Polis.

It feels good to stretch her legs, even though her side still hurts and Clarke can't help thinking that it will forever at this point even though she knows better. Inevitably her feet take her back to the medical tent, the last place she really wants to be but the only place she knew she would end up. As she enters and walks slowly past the rows of Grounders still too injured to be out of bed, she wonders why Lexa hasn't been moved into her own tent. Then she wonders why she cares. Lexa probably doesn't. Clarke shouldn't. She shakes the thoughts away.

It's quiet in the medical tent, and even more-so at Lexa's bedside. The commander seems peaceful enough, the rise and fall of her chest slow and steady. Her colour looks better as well. Clarke glances back towards the main body of the tent, wonders where her mother is, then wonders when the last time the wound on Lexa's stomach was checked. Clarke doesn't realize she's pulling down the blankets and lifting up Lexa's shirt until she sees the wad of bandaging on Lexa's skin. She hesitates, then steels herself.

She never noticed before just how defined Lexa's abdomen is. But then again, when would she ever have noticed? Now she can't stop staring and her fingers tremble as she peels the bandaging back. The wound is small enough, and cleanly stitched, but the wad of precious gauze Abby had pressed on sticks when Clarke gently pulls on it and comes away stained with sticky salve and dried blood. The area around the wound is already bruising, turning Lexa's skin the dark shades of purple and black that will soon fade to ugly yellow.

Clarke leaves Lexa's side only to fetch the supplies she needs to clean and redress the wound. The commander hasn't moved an inch when Clarke returns. All for the best. The less Lexa knows about Clarke's visit the better. Let her assume that Abby or one of the Grounder healers has been tending to her.

Clarke's almost done when Lexa wakes and says her name like it's something holy. It sends a tremor down Clarke's spine. Her throat is tight when she speaks. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

Lexa's breathing changes as she props herself up and Clarke's eyes are unwillingly drawn to the clenching of her muscles. “It's fine,” Lexa says softly. The way she always talks to Clarke. Sometimes it makes her want to scream. She finishes quickly and sits back, wishing that her face didn't feel so warm. “Thank you,” Lexa says.

“Of course,” Clarke replies. She hopes she's not the only one feeling the tension in the air. It's not like she's at fault for any of it. She wasn't the one who left Lexa and all her people to die. She wasn't the one who sent Roan out to act as a bounty hunter and bring her back unharmed.

“How long until I can travel?” Lexa asks, pulling Clarke away from dangerous thoughts. She's made no move to cover herself. Clarke looks at the bruising on her shoulder from where the first arrow hit, the scar from the mutant gorilla. “Clarke?”

She hates how Lexa says her name, how it makes the pit of her stomach clench. “Yeah?”

“When can I travel?”

“I don't know,” Clarke replies. “If you can't ride you can be pulled in a wagon. Why?”

Lexa's hand strays down to her knee, the massive bandaging hidden beneath the blankets. “Fetch me Indra, then return,” Lexa says. “Please.” Any thoughts Clarke had of ignoring her vanish at the please.

“Are you sure you don't want to just talk to her alone?” Clarke asks.

“No,” Lexa says, her green eyes steady on Clarke's. “I want you here, too.”

Clarke's throat closes. “I'll try to find her,” she says, and carefully leaves her seat.

It only takes a few questions to locate Indra and a few words to get the warrior to follow her to Lexa. When they arrive the commander is sitting straight up, her back supported by pillows and her face carefully composed. She doesn't show any signs of pain, but Clarke knows it hurts. There's just a hint of it deep in her eyes, the barest amount of weakness she'll show.

“We need to regroup,” Lexa says. Her voice is different, and Clarke knows they're speaking to Heda, not Lexa. “How far is the other camp? How quickly can a message be sent?”

“Quickly, Heda,” Indra replies.

“We need to regroup. We need to pull back to Polis and determine our next move, before Nia makes hers.”

“It will be done,” Indra says.

Lexa nods, a silent dismissal. Her face is wan. For a moment she sits there, eyes closed, breathing slow and deliberate. “We will leave as soon as we are able,” Lexa says tightly. “Will you ride with me, Clarke?”

“Of course,” Clarke answers without hesitation. “Should I try and find a cart for you?”

“No,” Lexa says. “ _Ai laik Heda_. I will ride.”

“Lexa,” Clarke starts, but Lexa flashes her a look. Clarke sets her jaw and tries again. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“There are people who need carts more than I do,” Lexa says. “This is my wish, Clarke.”

Clarke frowns, but she knows when any further effort is futile. She stands, wincing as her side pulls. She watches Lexa swallow, watches her eyes dart away like she wants to say something. She simply nods. Clarke leaves without another word, still feeling Lexa's eyes on her back even after she's made her way back into her own tent. Raven is still sitting at the table, scribbling in Clarke's notebook. She looks over her shoulder when she hears the scuff of Clarke's feet.

“You get those measurements for me, princess?” she asks.

“Can I have my sketch book back?”

“Not until I'm done,” Raven replies. Her face grows serious. “How's Lexa?”

“She's moving us back to Polis,” Clarke replies. She shrugs off her jacket and sits on the edge of her bed, trying to find a position that doesn't make her side hurt more than it already does.

“Us?” Raven asks. “It's 'us' now?”

Clarke sighs and pushes her thumb and finger into the corners of her eyes. “Indra is sending a message to the other camp. When everyone's gathered we're leaving. You don't have to come, but from where I'm standing you don't really have another option.”

“Just wondering what you're getting yourself into,” Raven says. “That's all.”

“Hell if I know,” Clarke replies.

“Well that's real reassuring.” Raven's dry tone makes Clarke crack a smile and laugh, the sound so unfamiliar it almost startles her. Raven gives her a wry, crooked grin. “Here,” she says, ripping pages out of the book and tossing it to the bed. “I'm done anyway. I'll just feel her up myself.”

“No,” Clarke says. Raven answers with a chuckle and awkwardly gets to her feet. She knows better than to try and help. Raven hobbles her way over to the bed and sits with a grunt. Clarke looks away, looking down at her sketch book and rubbing her thumbs against the cover while Raven unbuckles her brace. She drops it to the ground when its free and flops back, lying with her legs half off the bed and her hands folded on her stomach.

“Are you gonna move?” Clarke asks.

“No,” Raven says. “I'm going to sleep like this.” Clarke rolls her eyes. Raven does move eventually and falls asleep, her deep breathing the soundtrack to Clarke's lazy sketching. She finds herself drawing the curve of a familiar cheek and piercing eyes. She knows she should stop, but instead she finds herself filling out the drawing to completion. Lexa's face stares up at her from the page. Clarke fixes a smudge with the side of her pinkie, acutely aware of her heart thumping against her chest. Raven grunts and shifts beside her, her face scrunched up like she's having a bad dream. Clarke puts her sketch book aside and slips her fingers around her friend's, squeezing gently. Raven doesn't grip back, but after a minute she relaxes back into a more peaceful sleep. Clarke shifts around until she's comfortable enough that she can drift off as well, helped along by the gentle patter of rain on the canvas above her.

 

She sleeps until dawn when Raven wakes her with a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently until she cracks her eyes open.

“Better get up, princess,” she says. “They're packing up camp, and Lexa is looking for you.”

All Clarke wants to do is go back to sleep, or maybe put on fresh clothes, but she gets up regardless. The rain has turned into a proper storm, soaking the ground and leaving piles of muddy water every few feet. Most of the tents have been torn down. Covered carts had been assembled. People are bundled up against the weather, and the sound of the rain drowns out almost everything else. Only the medical tent is still completely standing. Clarke's soaked in the time it takes to reach it.

Some of the wounded have already been moved but others still remain, waiting for a free place. Clarke sees no sign of her mother. She goes straight to Lexa and finds the commander standing, half-dressed, her back bared to Clarke's wandering eyes. The beauty of Lexa's tattoo nearly takes her breath away. She clears her throat.

“Clarke,” Lexa says without turning. She ducks her head, donning her shirt with far more grace than Clarke thought she was capable of, given the circumstances. The left leg of her trousers has been slashed and rebound to make room for her bandaged knee. She favours her good one clearly enough, but Clarke's surprised to see her standing at all.

“You wanted to see me?” she asks.

“I did,” Lexa replies. Her hair is free and loose, falling over her shoulders and down her back in gentle, tangled waves. It looks soft, even now. “I wish for you to ride with me.”

“With you with you?” Clarke asks. “Or just near you?”

Lexa throws her a confused glance. “With me,” she repeats. “I cannot sit a horse on my own, but I will not take a place in a cart from one of my people.”

Clarke's not very keen on the idea of riding at all, but she nods.

“Good,” Lexa says. She audibly inhales and very slowly turns around to face Clarke fully. A flicker of pain flashes across her face. Clarke immediately offers her shoulder to lean on and together they shuffle out into the rain. A horse is swiftly brought. Clarke looks up at the large creature and wonders how the hell she's going to get herself up there, let alone Lexa. In the end she doesn't have to worry. A box is brought, and with the help of two broad men both of them mount up. As the last of the tents are collapsed and packed away a line forms behind them, and Lexa's vanguard, what's left of it, forms up around them.

Lexa sits the horse surprisingly well, Clarke less so. It really should be Clarke in front, but with Lexa's knee the way it is she can't control the horse nearly as well, so it falls to Clarke, who only has a few months of experience compared to Lexa's years, to lead the band of Trikru warriors on the long path back to Polis. Lexa leans back heavily against her. Her hair smells like wood fires and rain and Clarke can't help pushing her nose into it when Lexa's hood slips. Lexa doesn't seem to notice or maybe she's just too out of it to care. The longer they ride the more she relaxes into Clarke, until Clarke might as well be spooning her, one arm on either side to keep her from slipping out of the saddle. Trying to keep herself upright with so much of Lexa's weight on her makes her side sting.

The rain is relentless. At least most people have a covered wagon to ride in. The last thing all the wounded need is a flu on top of everything else. Clarke and Lexa aren't so lucky. Clarke bears it in silence, but her clothes are soaked through to her skin and she's cold and tired and it only makes her side hurt more. She shifts as much as she can and wraps one arm firmly around Lexa's waist. The commander grunts.

“Sorry,” Clarke mumbles, remembering the arrow wound. She starts to move her arm away but Lexa's hand around her wrist stops her.

“It's fine,” she says. A pause. “It helps.” Clarke rests her hand on Lexa's stomach. Lexa's hand covers it a second later, shielding it from the worst of the cold. Her fingertips feel frozen, but Lexa's seem warm. She doesn't lace her fingers with Clarke's, just lets them rest there. It's oddly comforting.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The pace they keep is quick. There's little time to rest, and they eat while they travel. They don't stop for a break until night falls. A few small fires are lit, those in the wagons are tended to, and the horses are tied and bedrolls lain out. Clarke automatically goes to seek out Raven and her mother, but finds herself at Lexa's side instead, helping the commander set up her furs to sleep. The trees give them some shelter, but it's going to be a wet night regardless. From the look on Indra's face where she's standing off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, it seems that Lexa refused her help. She doesn't refuse Clarke's. She grabs Lexa's arm to help her sit, then plops down next to her on the wet ground. Indra tends to the fire and does what she can to warm their rations. When Lexa wolfs her down like she's starving, Clarke offers up what's left of her own.

“You need to eat, Clarke,” Lexa says, pushing Clarke's hand away.

“I did. You need it more.”

“No,” Lexa says.

“Lexa, you're white as a sheet. Eat it.” Clarke offers the food again and this time Lexa takes it. It's gone in a few seconds. Clarke pulls her hood tighter around her face and huddles close to the fire, watching Lexa out of the corner of her eye. The commander has a hand on the thigh of her injured leg, just above her knee. There's pain in her eyes. Indra nudges Clarke's shoulder and hands her a small cup of something that smells medicinal. Clarke sighs and looks back to Lexa, then shuffles over to her side and offers her the cup.

“No,” Lexa says again.

“You don't even know what it is,” Clarke says.

“I know exactly what it is, and I don't want it.”

“Heda,” Indra says, exasperation in her tone.

“I need to be aware of my surroundings,” Lexa says firmly. “This dulls my senses. I will not drink it.”

“You need to rest,” Indra replies.

“I will not-”

“You're going to drink it if I have to hold you down and force it down your throat,” Clarke says in her best doctor voice. “You shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone travelling anywhere.”

Lexa glares at her, the kind of look that has others withering, but Clarke stands her ground, jaw tight, still holding the cup in the space between them. Reluctantly Lexa reaches out, her fingers covering Clarke's as she takes the cup and tips her head back to drain it dry. For an instant she actually seems as human as anyone else, her lips twisting in disgust before she licks them and her expression evens out.

Clarke passes the cup back to Indra and tries to bundle herself up in her furs as much as she can. It's nothing like being inside a tent, or her room at Polis, but it's better than leaving herself completely open to the elements. Lexa's out within minutes. Indra prods the fire, trying to keep it going despite the rain that slips through the cover of the trees. When she's sure that Lexa's asleep, she fixes Clarke with a pointed look. Clarke sighs and burrows further into her furs. The last thing she wants is whatever conversation is coming, but she knows she can't avoid it.

“Tell me honestly,” the warrior says, her voice completely serious in the orange and yellow light of the fire. “Her leg. Will she keep it?”

Clarke blinks, startled. She forgets, sometimes, the differences in the medicine she knows and uses and that which the Grounders have access to. “Of course she will,” Clarke says. “It's just... not the kind of wound that one just... recovers from.”

“She must show unyielding strength or risk being deposed or worse.”

“She is,” Clarke says. “I've never seen anyone power through things the way she does.”

“Keep an eye on her,” Indra says. “I fear for her life. Many will take this injury as weakness.”

Clarke glances over at Lexa, who looks so small in her makeshift bed, only the top of her head showing beneath her furs. Clarke reaches over to tuck her in more snugly without thinking about it. When she straightens up Indra's dark eyes are focused on her, but she says nothing. She sighs and lies down, her body close to Lexa's. It doesn't take long for her to notice the commander's shivering. When Indra leaves a minute later Clarke sits again and tugs on Lexa's furs, ignoring her side, until Lexa's as close to the fire as Clarke dares let her be before rearranging her own bed on the ground behind Lexa and lying close. As she hoped, Lexa's trembling stops a few minutes later. Clarke covers her head with her furs and eventually drifts into a fitful sleep.

 

When she drifts awake the fire is nothing but cold, dead embers and she's pressed up as close as she could possibly get to Lexa's back without being on top of her, Lexa's warmth seeping into Clarke's front. The rain has stopped, for now, and the air smells wet and fresh. Clarke forgets where she is, forgets who she's with, and buries her face in Lexa's damp, sweet smelling hair. The morning dew is cool on her bare skin. Her side doesn't hurt. Lexa's hand is in hers. Everything feels how it should, and for a moment, just for a moment, Clarke's happy.

Then a horse snorts loudly and Clarke startles fully awake. She realizes where she is, who she's with, the position they're in. Her side tugs unpleasantly when she pulls away. Lexa doesn't wake, not immediately. Clarke's working the stiffness out of her limbs by the time she does, her head lifting off the ground, looking around with bleary eyes until she spots Clarke. Wordlessly, Clarke helps her to her feet, nearly losing her own balance in the process. Lexa's wince is audible. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth and all of her weight rests on Clarke and on her good leg. Clarke glances over to the horses and wonders how the hell she's going to get Lexa all the way up there and keep her there for another day of riding.

They'll have to manage. There's no other choice. It's a lucky thing that, for all her muscle, Lexa is rather slight. The more burly of her warriors have no trouble at all getting her onto the saddle, and Clarke as well. It's a half a day of riding before the tall tower of Polis comes into view and Clarke breathes out a heavy sigh of relief. Lexa's been listing in the saddle all day, her head lolling back onto Clarke's shoulder. This must be the reason why she didn't want to drink whatever was in that cup Indra gave her. It must have been stronger stuff than what Clarke had drank, because she didn't feel anywhere near this groggy when she woke up. She just wants to get Lexa to the capital to get proper care and rest in a proper bed. She wouldn't mind the last one for herself either.

She twists in the saddle to look back down the line where her own people are a small ragged band in wagons and on horses. Her mother's the only one who's ever seen the capital. She wonders what Raven and the others will think of it. If it will change their minds about the Grounders the way Lexa thought it would change Clarke's. She hopes it does. It's late afternoon by the time their weary band finally reaches the city limits. Clarke feels more than sees Lexa straighten her spine and sit that much taller in the saddle. If the dull ache in Clarke's side is anything to judge by she can almost imagine how much pain Lexa is putting herself through. She lets her arms drop from around Lexa's waist to loosely hold the reins, taking away as much support as she can without risking both of them falling out of the saddle.

Horns announce their arrival. By the time they actually take to the city streets the space around them is packed full of people, all shouting Heda and Lexa. Clarke knows what the expression on Lexa's face looks like without needing to see it. The woman sitting in front of her is Heda, and nothing else. She is the strength of her people, their leader and their hero. She cannot be seen as weak. Clarke holds her head a bit higher, her eyes never leaving the centre tower. When they reach the base Lexa smoothly takes the reins from Clarke's hands and tugs their horse to a gentle stop. The crowd is behind them, blocked off by the rest of the caravan. In the brief seconds they have before the public sees them again, one of Lexa's vanguard lifts her off her hose and helps her inside, leaving Clarke to awkwardly slip to the ground and follow.

The lift takes them up and up to the top of the tower and to Lexa's rooms. Only her vanguard stays with them, taking up positions on either side of the doors that lead into Lexa's chamber. Clarke is allowed to pass without question, as does Indra. Clarke refrains from glaring at her. She knows Indra is one of Lexa's closest advisors, but Lexa needs rest, not to deal with affairs of state. She only just got home for God's sake.

Lexa walks to the sofa without any help and carefully sinks down onto it, perched carefully, her hands folded in her lap and her head held high. “Speak,” she says. Clarke stands off to the side and waits while Indra delivers a brief report. Clarke's so tired that half of it goes in one ear and out the other. She can guess at the parts she's missing. They know precious little about Azgeda's movements. The blow that was struck at that battle would take a while to recover from, perhaps longer than they had. At least they were safe in Polis. For now.

Clarke doesn't speak up until she notices Lexa starting to waver. “She needs to rest,” she says firmly, crossing the room to stand by Lexa's side. “We'll discuss this later.”

Indra glares at Clarke, then directs her gaze back at Lexa. Lexa nods. Indra leaves and Lexa's vanguard pull the doors shut softly behind her. Lexa's shoulders slump and she falls back against the sofa, running a hand over her face. She looks weary.

“Should I send for someone?” Clarke asks, already moving towards the door to ask one of Lexa's guard to fetch her mother.

Lexa grabs her wrist. “You're a healer, no?”

“I-well-I guess.”

“I know you are.” She pauses, looking up at Clarke with bleary eyes. “I wish for you to be the one tending to me.”

“I need supplies,” Clarke says, “I need-”

“You will have everything you need,” Lexa says, her voice shaking. “I know I have no right to ask you for anything.”

“No,” Clarke says softly. “You don't.” She sighs and nods her head. Lexa's grip on her wrist relaxes, then falls away. Clarke crosses to the door, and in her best Trigedasleng tells one of Lexa's guards a list of what she'll need. She must get her point across okay because one of them leaves with only a nod in response.

“You speak well,” Lexa says when Clarke returns to her side. She doesn't fight when Clarke starts to pull her up from the sofa and lead her over to her bed.

“I've had a lot of practice,” she replies. Lexa leans on her and hobbles along, more hopping than walking, and lets Clarke lie her back on a pile of pillows. “I'm going to look at your shoulder,” she says, pulling at the collar of Lexa's shirt. Lexa tilts her head far to the side and tugs her shirt off her shoulder, exposing the bandage still stuck there. Clarke carefully plucks at the edge until it gives and she can peel it back. It's covered with the same sticky salve that coats Lexa's other wounds, and spots of black blood, but the wound underneath is already healing well. It likely won't even leave a scar. Clarke brushes her fingers across it, examining, and hears Lexa's breathing change.

There's already water and a hand towel nearby. She should have asked for more. She sighs and brings the pitcher and bowl next to it closer to the bed, then wets the towel and sits at Lexa's hip. Lexa lazily rolls her neck, shirt still hanging off her shoulder, her hands limp at her sides. Clarke tenderly cleans the wound and the area around it, trying not to press too hard.

“I won't break, Clarke,” Lexa says, the hint of a smile in her voice and on her face. Clarke glances up to find Lexa watching her through half-lidded eyes. Their faces are close. When she turns her attention back to her work she can feel Lexa's breath stirring her hair. She finishes in time for the rest of the supplies she needs to arrive, with her mother in tow. Lexa tugs her shirt back into place when Abby comes into view, holding a small doctor's bag. Behind her comes a servant carrying more water, and another with an armful of packets of herbs.

“You should let me look at you,” Abby says, her words directed at Lexa. She barely spares a glance for Clarke, but there's volumes in it.

“I trust Clarke,” Lexa says.

“With all due respect, Commander,” Abby says, “Clarke doesn't have as much experience as I do.”

“Clarke was sent down here to die and yet survived, despite all odds,” Lexa replies, her voice sharp. “I think her experience will more than suffice.”

The barb hits Clarke and Abby both. Clarke holds her tongue and watches as her mother sets the bag with the rest of the supplies brought for her.

“If you need anything...” Abby says. Clarke nods. Abby and the servers file out, leaving Clarke and Lexa alone once more.

“I'm sorry,” Lexa says softly. “I didn't mean to be so harsh.”

“It's fine,” Clarke replies. She crouches down to sort through what she's been brought. Considering how short supplies have been she has a pretty good haul. Her mother's tools are wrapped carefully in a pouch in her bag, along with small, carefully marked bottles of various different medicines. The herbs and poultices brought by Lexa's servant are just as well labelled but not quite as familiar. Clarke doesn't want to risk anything more than a strong antiseptic. An unmarked bottle that nearly burns Clarke's eyebrows off when she opens it will do more than good enough.

Lexa already has her shirt pulled up when Clarke spins around. She removes the bandage with far too much ease and with gentle dabs washes Lexa's stomach. The stitches look good. They held, despite all the riding, not that Clarke should expect any less of her mother's work. She prods the area with soft fingers.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“It's fine,” Lexa says softly.

“You don't have to lie with me,” Clarke says.

Lexa sighs. “It's fine. It aches.”

“And your leg?” Lexa is silent. “Raven... might be able to help.”

“How? Is she a healer as well?”

“No,” Clarke says. “She's an engineer. She builds things.”

“What can she build that will help?”

“A brace,” Clarke says. “For your leg. So you can walk.”

“I do not need a brace to walk,” Lexa says instantly.

“You don't know that,” Clarke says. “You need to face facts, Lexa. You can't just... recover from something like this. People have been put in wheelchairs for less.”

“You can fix it,” Lexa says. “I know you can.”

Clarke sighs heavily, but her words catch in her throat. Lexa has so much faith in her and Clarke has no idea if she can deliver, but the odds are against her. Against them both. She leaves Lexa's stomach uncovered. The air will be good for the wound. She doesn't want to look at Lexa's leg but she knows she needs to. It's been days. If it's hurting Lexa as badly as it is, then there might might be an infection starting, and if that happens then Lexa _will_ lose her leg.

Lexa unbuttons her pants and helps Clarke as much as she can to get them off. Clarke leaves them and Lexa's boots on the floor and tries not to look at all the leg on display. At least Lexa's wearing shorts, though likely needs a new pair. Clarke spares a glance down at her own mud splattered clothes. They both need a change. Lexa spares a pillow so Clarke can prop up her leg and have enough room to undo the almost excessive amount of binding around Lexa's knee. Lexa makes a pained noise in the back of her throat when the last layer comes away, her body tensing.

“I'm sorry,” Clarke says softly.

“I've had worse,” Lexa replies.

“Oh yeah?” Clarke says. Her doctor brain is kicking in. Keep Lexa talking, distract her from the pain. Distract herself from causing it as well. “Tell me about it.” Lexa doesn't speak right away. She watches Clarke's hands instead, as she checks Lexa's knee for unusual swelling or redness and carefully brushes her fingers over the growing scar tissue. Clarke has to prompt her to say something.

“I was sixteen,” she says. “Training with-” she hisses as Clarke pokes a tender spot, “-with Anya. My attention slipped and I fell badly. My ankle broke.”

“What could have possibly distracted you enough to make a mistake like that?” Clarke asks.

“Not what,” she says. “Who.” And Clarke knows without having to ask.

“It was that bad?” Clarke asks.

“It was,” Lexa replies. “It swelled horribly, and it hurt... almost more than anything.”

“What could hurt more than a broken ankle?” Clarke asks.

“There are different kinds of pain, Clarke. You know that.”

And Clarke can't keep quiet any more. “Lexa, you might never be able to walk without help again. You know that, right?” She meets Lexa's gaze, and the commander's eyes are dark and unreadable.

“I will do what I must, Clarke,” she says. “Whatever is best for my people.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Sheogorath voice- BATHS FOR EVERYONE!

Lexa's words haunt her as she settles in for sleep that night in her old room, not far down the curving corridor from the commander's. She strips off her grimy clothes, leaving them in a crumpled pile on her floor. She's long past the point of caring if they wrinkle or not. The only thing she wants is to be _clean_ , even more than she wants to crawl into bed and sleep for another week. Delight fills her when she discovers there's already a bath waiting. Clarke wouldn't care if the water was cold, but she finds it deliciously warm when she tests it with her fingertips. Still fresh, with a lumpy bar of soap and a bone comb within easy reach. Clarke quickly strips off the rest of her dirty things and wastes no more time before climbing in, slowly sinking down into the tub until she's completely submerged, holding her breath until her lungs begin to burn. Her side stings and burns and Clarke lets the sensation fade before she starts to wash it, and then sets the soap aside to simply let the water seep into aches she didn't even know she had. There are dozens of tiny cuts up her legs and arms that prick like needles for brief seconds before there's nothing but heat.

Clarke closes her eyes and tips her head back and for a long time doesn't move. She dozes off once, but not for more than a few minutes, but it leaves her eyes and body heavy with exhaustion. It's hard to lift her arm from the water, but she does, and picks up the soap again to thoroughly clean every inch of herself, starting with her toes and working her way up. She doubts she'll ever get all of the dirt out from beneath her nails, but it's worth a try, and by the time she's done her body is pink from the heat and the scrubbing both, leaving Clarke with the mess that is her hair to muddle through. She almost wants to just hack it all off, but with determination and the help of the comb she gets the worst of the tangles out. The water is filled with dirt and grime and more than a bit of blood, but Clarke feels mercifully clean. Water rolls off her body in rivulets as she stands and steps out, standing on shaky legs. In semi-darkness she makes her way to the bed and shrugs into her robe, ringing excess water out of her hair and onto a patch of uncovered stone beneath her feet.

She feels miles better and completely drained. It's hard enough to keep her eyes open for the short amount of time it takes for her body to dry enough to shed her robe for the fresh clothes laid out for her and fall into bed, even though she doesn't quite manage to make it beneath the warm, soft furs that cover it. Her dreams are strange: frantic, blurred shapes, shouting voices, blood on her hands, a painful level of awareness that nothing she's seeing or hearing is real but the frustrating inability to tear herself away from it. The screaming wakes her, eventually, her skin clammy and her heart pounding in her ears. She crawls under the furs and pulls them up to her chin as if they can protect her from the demons that nip at her heels. She sees shadows and shapes in the darkness, but her burning eyes are too heavy to keep open, and slumber claims her once again. Her exhaustion grants her a few blessed hours of dreamless sleep before the sun filling the room wakes her fully.

For once there's no pain when she moves, just weighty limbs and the desire to pull the furs over her head and go back to sleep. She tries, for a while, but her body grows restless and the heat from the sun beats down on her bed. Reluctantly, Clarke climbs out of bed and stretches in every way she can until loud popping fills her ears and her body feels loose and limber. Her thoughts go to Lexa and before her brain really catches up to what she's doing she's changing into clean clothes and making her way down the hall to Lexa's room. She lets herself in in time to see Lexa struggling to get in a bath herself. She doesn't hear the door open.

For a long second Clarke is struck dumb by the sight of Lexa's bare back, her hair falling loose and free around her shoulders. Her eyes inevitably drop lower, a hot blush covering her face and neck at the sight that meets them. She shouldn't stare, but it takes entirely too long for her to shake herself out of it and speak up.

“Here, let me help.”

If Lexa is surprised she doesn't show it. “I'm fine,” she says, but Clarke is already at her side, trying her hardest to not look at all the smooth flesh on display.

“You're going to hurt yourself even more doing that,” she says, gripping Lexa's arm to steady her. “Don't get your bandage wet.” Lexa tenses beneath her hand, but delicately, and with some difficulty, steps into the tub. Clarke lefts her injured leg for her, propping her heel on the edge of the tub. The bandaging has mostly escaped the brief ordeal unscathed.

“I can't bathe like this, Clarke,” Lexa says, a hint of irritation in her voice.

“Well, then it's a good thing I'm here isn't it?” Clarke bites back. Lexa scrutinizes her face, which only serves to make Clarke blush harder, then relaxes, ever so slightly, into the water. Clarke reaches for the soap and a small towel, wets both, and works up as much of a lather as she can. She eyes the bandage around Lexa's knee, but it can wait until last, when Clarke won't have to wait to redress it. It's too late for the one on her side, but maybe a soak is all it really needs.

She tries her best to ignore that Lexa is naked, the outline of her body just visible beneath the surface of the water. She starts at Lexa's feet, like she had with herself, but the act of washing them feels so reverent that Clarke almost wants to scream, but she can't stop herself from cleaning the spaces between Lexa's toes, along the arches, scrubbing caked dirt of of her heels. It should be illegal for anyone's skin to be this soft after a week out in the field. Clarke's is cracked and dry. Hell, she can't remember it ever being anything else, but Lexa's is like silk when it should be the opposite. Clarke tries not to ignore that, too.

What she can't ignore is the feeling of Lexa's eyes on her, that tingling between her shoulder blades that she tries to not acknowledge.

“What?” she finally asks without looking up, carefully drawing the cloth up one firm calf.

“You don't have to do this,” Lexa says.

Clarke only shrugs and washes what she can around the bulky bandage on Lexa's knee, then switches to the other leg. It's almost automatic, moving higher, up strong thighs, but just as her hand dips beneath the water Lexa's shoots out, fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist. Clarke's only too aware of the heat that erupts under her skin at the contact, at how her heart thuds painfully against her aching ribs. She finally looks up, meeting Lexa's gaze through the thin shield her lashes provide. Lexa says nothing, not does she move. It's Clarke who pulls her hand away, an apology on her tongue. She swallows it down and lets Lexa take the cloth from her, turning away and listening as the commander washes herself. Her soft voice breaks the thick silence.

“I can't reach my back.”

Clarke crouches at the head of the tub, her breath shaking ever so slightly as she takes the cloth. Lexa reaches over her shoulder to pull her hair forward, exposing her back and the tattoo that runs the length of her spine, starting at the nape of her neck and vanishing beneath the waterline. Clarke's fingers yearn to touch it, mouth tingling with the desire to do more. She licks her lips and scrubs a thin layer of dirt and sweat off of Lexa's skin, marvelling at the structure of her bones, at the subtle flexing of her muscles, at each little twitch and shift. Her shoulders steadily rise and fall, her breathing even and calm.

There are goosebumps on Clarke's arms. Her whole body is trembling when she's finished and pulls away and pushes to her feet, leaving the damp cloth draped over the side of the tub and turning her back. There's a few long seconds of hesitation before she hears Lexa rise, hears the water dripping off her body, and Clarke squeezes her eyes shut to keep from looking. Lexa's footsteps slap softly against the floor. Clarke waits until she hears the rustle of fabric and the silence that follows before she opens her eyes. Lexa sits on the edge of her bed, injured leg outstretched, looking more like a wounded girl than the leader of an entire people. There are shadows under her eyes, a delicate downturn at the corners of her mouth. Her shoulders are slumped with a weariness Clarke knows all too well.

Clarke fetches her mother's doctor bag from its new home out of the way and out of sight and kneels at Lexa's feet. Lexa makes no noise and no movement as Clarke unwraps her knee and looks at it with a critical eye. It could always be better, but she knows it could always be worse as well. She sniffs delicately. It's been too long tightly wrapped. Some fresh air will do it good. She discards the dirty bandages, trusting that a servant will arrive to take them to be washed or burned, whichever is needed, and carefully cleans the area around the wound, slowly working her way towards the middle. She doesn't miss the look in Lexa's eye as she examines her leg, nor the way her hands are tightly clenched around the edge of her bed.

“Leave it open today and tonight,” Clarke says as she packs the bag back up. “I'll wrap it up for you again in the morning.” Lexa tilts her head up and nods. “Are you going to rest?”

“I have duties,” Lexa says.

“So, no,” Clarke replies and clamps down on an irritated sigh. “Will you try?” she asks. Lexa nods again. Clarke knows it's the best she's going to get.

“I'm meeting with the nightbloods this morning,” Lexa says. “Will you join me?” A pause. “Aden will be happy to see you. They all will.”

“If it means I can keep an eye on you, sure,” Clarke replies.

Lexa's lips tilt up in something not quite a smile, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “If that's what it takes,” she says, and slowly gets to her feet without Clarke's help.

“Do-”

“No,” Lexa says, “but if you don't mind waiting I would welcome your company on the walk.”

“Right,” Clarke says, and busies herself with tidying as much as she can, listening to Lexa's quiet grunts and hisses as she struggles into her clothes. She should have helped anyway, regardless of what Lexa wanted. Her stubbornness is only going to end up getting her hurt one of these days, and Clarke knows she's going to be the one who has to pick up the pieces.

 

The _natblida_ are already there when they arrive, sitting in a semi-circle in front of Lexa's throne. Aden is the first to stand, a smile on his face. He looks like he's about to hug Lexa before he remembers who she is and where they are. The way he stands reminds her so much of Lexa; how he clasps his hands behind his back, holds his head high, even how the other initiates look up to him. Lexa walks to her throne by herself, disguising her limp as best she can, and gestures for Clarke to sit at her side. Clarke smiles at Aden as she passes and gratefully folds her legs, leaning against the side of Lexa's seat. The nightbloods take their seats once more, looking up at their commander with wide, worshipping eyes. They all look at Lexa's leg, but they seem happy that their commander is live and well and pay it no heed. Clarke listens to the lesson Lexa gives, watches how the nightbloods soak up every word. They look at her like she's a god, and maybe to them she is; a tall, powerful, untouchable being blessing them with her presence. It's not hard to understand why. Sometimes it seems that only Clarke can see Lexa as a person, and not an idol.

But at least Lexa is resting, in a manner of speaking, and it's refreshing to see a gentle smile teasing her face. It's clear how much she cares for the children sitting in front of her, how she sees them all as equals despite their differences. She truly is a visionary, Clarke thinks, leagues ahead of all of the people Clarke learned of in her history classes, all of the corrupt world leaders who each in their own way led to the destruction of the earth. Things could be different under her, if she was given the chance to change them.

There's a tightness in her smile, though, and something hidden behind her eyes. Much weighs on Lexa's shoulders, and for once Clarke isn't sure she can bear it alone.

 

When the nightbloods are dismissed the council is summoned. Clarke takes her place among the eleven representatives, keeping a careful eye on Lexa. As Clarke knew it would, the discussion turns to the war they suddenly find thrust upon them. The arguing starts to make Clarke's head ache before Lexa's sharp voice cuts through the shouting.

“Someone is providing Nia with the information she needs to move unseen through _my_ lands,” she says, getting to her feet with barely a hint of pain, “and when I discover who, they will find their head on a spike. Go.” The order rings with a heavy finality. Clarke remains as the others leave, until it is only them in the room. Lexa's jaw is tight with anger.

“Lexa-”

“I wish to be alone.”

“Lexa,” Clarke tries again, firmer.

“Go,” Lexa says, her voice hard but not quite harsh. “I will be fine.”

Clarke wishes she believed her.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for attempted ritual suicide.

Clarke's worst fears start to come to fruition. Lexa shrinks in on herself. Her wounds are healing well, but it's her mind that worries Clarke the most. She's so used to have access to Lexa rooms whenever she wants it that the first time she's turned away from the door she doesn't know how to react. She stands there, feeling dumb, staring at the hardened faces of Lexa's guards. She wishes it was a simple case of them not recognizing her, but everyone knows who Clarke is, and these are the same guards who have been posted here for the last week. Stumped, Clarke slowly returns to her own rooms.

Her side is healing well. It only aches if she overexerts herself. It'll scar, but she's lucky. It could have been much worse. She wraps her robe tighter around herself and pads barefoot to her balcony, looking out over the beauty that is Polis at night. She leans on the balustrade, letting the cool evening air kiss her face. The city spirals out before her, a forest of lamp and firelight. She hasn't seen much of her mother since Lexa turned down her help, or of Raven for that matter. She's in no hurry to seek anyone out. Lately all their company does is remind her of the burden of her responsibilities. Of all the things she owes to her people. How many more sacrifices will she have to make to keep them all alive?

When the chill of the air becomes too much Clarke closes the doors and retreats back into the main body of her room. Two sets of clothes have been provided for her to use while her others are being _thoroughly_ cleaned and patched. A new set of pyjamas was brought to her as well; the same kind of shorts that Lexa wears beneath her trousers and a loose fitting shirt, soft from use. Clarke slips gratefully into them and buries herself under the pile of sweet smelling furs on top of her bed. It's been two weeks and she still can't get enough of being warm and safe, or as safe as she can get. No one will dare lay hands on her in the capital, not while she's under Lexa's explicit protection. Not even Titus, whose opinion of Clarke has not changed since the last time they saw each other. The feeling is mutual.

She's deep in the throes of a familiar nightmare when she's startled awake by a firm pounding at her door. Whoever's on the other side sounds like they've been knocking for a while. Clarke rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door, opening it to see one of Lexa's servants on the other side, holding a small box in both her hands. Clarke frowns up at the young woman, blindly accepting the box as it's pushed into her grasp. It's simple, but there's an elegance to the craftsmanship that even Clarke can appreciate in the brief seconds she has to admire it before she opens it.

Her heart and stomach drop as one as a solid ball of dread settles deep in the pit of her soul. Nestled inside the box is a locke of familiar, rich brown hair, neatly tied off at the top. Clarke drops the box, clutching the message tightly in her hand, because that's what it is, and it's not a message that Clarke will accept, not now, not ever. She leaves the startled servant behind her and rushes down the curving hall. The fact that there's no one standing outside Lexa's room only adds to Clarke's worry. When she tries the door she finds it locked.

“Lexa!” she shouts, banging her fist against the wood. “Lexa, open the door! Lexa!” Clarke doesn't think, she just reacts, throwing herself at the door once, twice, thrice until the lock splinters and she stumbles inside to see Lexa fully dressed and awkwardly kneeling on the floor, her room dark save for the moonlight bathing her, a dagger in her hands. Clarke crosses to her in three swift strides and knocks the weapon from her hands. The only thing she can think is thank fuck Lexa insisted on giving Clarke rooms so close to her own.

Lexa looks up at her with wide, startled eyes, almost too bright in the glow of the moonlight and backdrop of black paint and Clarke wants to slap her. The dagger's blade glints dangerously several feet away. She doesn't know what to say. What can she say? Anger boils under her skin, then simmers away just as quickly as it rose. Lexa makes no move towards the dagger.

Only one word breaks through the fog that suddenly envelops her mind. “Why?”

“For my people,” Lexa says easily. There's no tremor in her voice or trembling in her lips, only a confusion on her face that Clarke doesn't understand. “I can't lead them like this, Clarke. They need someone who can.”

“Why?” Clarke asks again. “Because... because you can't walk right? That doesn't make you any less of a leader, Lexa, you can't just-”

“What would you have me do?” Lexa asks softly.

“Try!” Clarke shouts, making both herself and Lexa flinch as it echoes off the walls. “Just... try,” she repeats, softer. She notices her hands are clenched into fists and she slowly releases them with a forced exhale, stretching her fingers out wide. She kneels down, slowly, and takes Lexa's hands in hers, her thumbs pressing into sharp knuckles and deep valleys. “Raven can make that brace for you. I promise it'll help. You've seen her walk, and she has no feeling in that leg. None.”

“I am the commander,” Lexa says softly. Her words are loaded.

“You're more than that,” Clarke says. “You are Lexa kom Trikru and I...” Lexa's gaze drops to Clarke's lips and for a second, just a second, Clarke thinks... But Lexa's head falls forward, her brow thumping gently against the jut of Clarke's collarbone. Her hair tickles Clarke's chin. Their hands fall into Clarke's lap. She sits back on her heels, and for a long time neither of them move. Clarke's knees are aching before Lexa finally lifts her head. Her eyes are weary and rimmed with red.

“I'm sorry,” she says quietly. Clarke says nothing, just gets to her feet with a pained grunt, still holding Lexa's hands. It takes a great deal more effort to get Lexa to stand. She walks, poorly and with a bad limp, tightly clutching Clarke's fingers. When they reach the bed she all but falls onto it, propping herself up with pale hands. Guided by the moonlight, Clarke finds a basin of water to wash the warpaint off Lexa's face. When she turns, Lexa is easing off her boots, her coat carelessly tossed to the floor. Clarke waits until she finishes drawing her shirt over her head and settles on the bed next to her, balancing the bowl of water on her lap and soaking the edge of the accompanying towel.

With gentle healer's hands Clarke cleans Lexa's face, taking extra care around her eyes. Lexa never stops watching her, only closing her eyes when Clarke moves the towel too close. It's quiet and intimate and the only thing Clarke can hear is her heartbeat in her ears. The water is tinted black when she's finished. She dumps it and refills it with clean water, leaving Lexa to finish undressing in peace. When she returns Lexa is still sat on the edge of the bed, the muscles of her arms tense. Clarke finds herself at a loss for words again. Should she just go back to her own room? Does she stay? She trusts Lexa not to try... whatever it is she was doing again, but should she really be left alone?

She crosses an arm behind her back and grips her elbow, biting back a sigh. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yes,” Lexa says, but it sounds automatic.

“Do you...”

“Yes,” Lexa says again, “but only if you want to.”

“Do you sleep sitting up, or...” If the light was better Clarke would say that Lexa was blushing. The scar tissue forming on her knee gleams brightly as she draws her legs up and burrows under layers of furs. There's more than enough room for Clarke. Lexa gazes up expectantly at her. She looks so young. Clarke's never felt older. She forces her weary bones into bed, sinking gratefully into a soft mattress and sweet smelling furs. Their bodies don't touch but Clarke can feel Lexa's warmth. Lexa is quiet, but not asleep. Her body is too stiff, her breathing too erratic. Clarke closes her eyes and tries to focus on her own. Eventually she feels the bed sag, ever so slightly, as Lexa shifts onto her side and presses her nose to Clarke's shoulder. Her body relaxes then as if someone has pulled a plug and let it all drain out. The tip of her nose is cold, but her breath is warm and light against Clarke's skin. Clarke only stays awake for a moment longer before she feels heavy with sleep.

When she wakes in the morning she's never felt more rested, but the bed is empty. Soft sunlight peeks through the curtained and closed balcony doors. Clarke slips from the bed, worry plucking at her mind, and finds Lexa sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by golden light, her eyes closed and her face one of peace. Her injured leg is at an awkward angle, but doesn't seem to be causing her much pain. Clarke's bare feet whisper across the wooden floor.

Lexa's eyes flicker open before Clarke can say her name. “I've been thinking,” she says. “Is your friend here, in the tower?”

“She has a room,” Clarke says. “I don't know how often she's here, though.”

“My people will find her,” Lexa replies. “Is she as good as you say?”

“Better,” Clarke says without hesitation. “She won't let you down.”

“I hope not,” Lexa says. “I'll send someone for her.” She gets to her feet without Clarke's help, but it's a slow and awkward affair. “Will you eat with me, Clarke?”

“Sure,” Clarke replies. She's offered a robe and a place is set for her at Lexa's small table. They eat a simple meal in silence, the balcony doors open to circulate fresh air through the room.

 

Wherever Raven was, it doesn't take long to locate her. Clarke's only just dressed and is helping Lexa to do the same when the door opens and Raven limps in, the piece of paper from Clarke's sketch book in her hand. She cocks a brow at the two of them, her lips twisting into a coy smile.

“Should I come back later?” she asks. Clarke blushes despite herself and jerks back, leaving Lexa to tug her trousers up the rest of the way on her own. She steps away and motions Raven forward, trying to give them as much privacy as she can. Raven knows what she's doing, and she's more respectful than Clarke thought she was capable of. Clarke sits off to the sides and watches and waits, her fingers itching for something to toy with. Raven takes several precise measurements, scribbles them down, then double checks everything.

“I can have this done by the end of the day,” Raven says, getting to her feet. Clarke wonders if Lexa notices her wince. “Tomorrow morning at best, maybe.”

Lexa nods, her only answer. Raven gives Clarke a quizzical glance. Clarke tilts her head towards the door.

“Ooookay, then,” Raven says. “So, where can I get what I need?” She starts to rattle off different materials and parts, ticking things off on her fingers. Lexa looks like she only knows what part of the things are, but she gives Raven her complete attention.

“Speak to Rowan,” she says, gesturing to the door with one slender hand to indicate her guard. “He will take you to who can help.”

“Right,” Raven says. “Clarke.”

“Raven,” Clarke says in farewell. With a final glance between the two of them that reeked of suspicion, Raven caught Rowan's attention and the last thing Clarke heard her say before the door shut behind them was her going through her list of materials again.

Lexa crosses to her. Her limp isn't quite as bad as it was, but it's there and there's no hiding it, and Clarke can see the pain in her eyes. “Will it work?” she asks, finding a new seat next to Clarke on the couch.

“I don't know,” she says honestly. “You won't find out unless you try.”

“I told you I will,” Lexa replies.

“Can I trust you?” Clarke asks. She only means can she trust Lexa alone, but it comes out loaded and far heavier than it should have been.

Lexa's bright eyes meet hers and don't waver, not in the slightest. “You can trust me, Clarke,” she says softly, her voice almost caressing Clarke's name. It echoes in her ears after she returns to her own room to leave Lexa to dress and speak to Indra in private. No one's ever said Clarke's name the way Lexa does. No one ever makes her feel as important. As safe. Despite all of it. And she hates it. She hates feeling ripped in two, wanting, with everything that she is, to give into the hurricane of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her whenever she's in the same room as the commander, but unable to forget what Lexa had done, even with the chilling knowledge that had she been in Lexa's place she would have done the same.

 


	7. Chapter 7

She dresses slowly in a set of the clothes left for her, feeling more at home in Grounder gear than she has in anything else in a long time. She can't put a finger on when the transition happened, but she'd bet money on it being Mount Weather and its aftermath. It's always Mount Weather. It always _will_ be Mount Weather.

She still has Lexa's locke of hair. It never left her sight, not even when she was tending to Lexa the night before. She holds it in her hand now, stroking her thumb down the silky strands, and tucks it into a pocket on her jacket before leaving her room and beginning the lengthy trek down the tower. With Lexa occupied and her desire to see her mother and face her questions next to non-existent, Clarke ventures out of the tower to wander the streets of the city. It might be warmer in the confines of Polis' walls, but the air is still nippy enough for Clarke to have an excuse to pull up her hood. The last thing she needs it any unwanted attention from people who see her only as the commander of death.

Lexa said that Polis would change how she thought, and if Lexa hadn't already done that on her own then Clarke knows that it would have. She never imagined that a place like Polis could exist, so colourful and noisy and crowded, full of a hundred different scents and sounds. Clarke could lose herself in it if she wanted to, and she would by lying if she said it wasn't a tempting thought. The sun has barely risen above the horizon but the city is already a bustle of activity. She wonders if it ever sleeps. She's heard tales of the cities from before the war, but she had never seen their bright lights winking up at her from the dead planet below, no matter how many times she pressed her nose to a window and wished she could. She wonders what Polis would look like, or if she would even be able to see it. Probably not, or they would have known, wouldn't they? They would have known the earth was still hospitable.

A food booth stalls her wandering thoughts, a distraction she couldn't be more grateful for. She doesn't know the names for the fruits the vendor is selling, but the skin breaks easily under her teeth and the juices are sweet in her mouth. She presses money into the vendor's hand, her mouth too full for a thank you, and continues on her way. It's not long before there are crowds pressing in around her. It's difficult to breathe with so many bodies so close to her own, but there's a comfort in the anonymity it provides. She lets the flow of traffic carry her along, a wave of people of all shapes and sizes.

She can never get truly lost in the city, she knows that. The tower looms tall over everything. As long as she has that in sight she'll always be able to get back. She slips away from the main roads and down an alley, leaving the noise of a busy city behind her. The buildings close in around her, tall even after the destruction that the bombs falling did to them. So much of the damage has been repaired in ways Clarke wouldn't ever have thought possible without the technologies that had been lost to them for so long. The perseverance of the human species will never fail to impress her.

It's almost startling how... normal Polis looks from the ground. Not that Clarke has any other experience to draw from, only what pictures were saved and those were few and far between compared to the billions and billions that had existed before. Maybe she expected there to be more rubble. True, most of the buildings aren't as tall as they once were, excluding the tower, but many of them are in surprisingly good shape, and it seems like the ones that couldn't be saved were broken down and cleared away for found some useful purpose. It's almost like stepping back in time.

Clarke lets her feet take her where they will, eventually losing track of where she's been, never truly losing herself, not with the tower standing tall, but for a time she can almost pretend that the city has swallowed her up. Maybe she'll be a different person when it finally spits her out.

But the sun rises and nothing is different, save that her feet hurt from so much walking. She follows the sounds of people back to the main roads and follows them back to the tower. The men standing at the entrance greet her with silent nods. Clarke doesn't look at them as she passes, finally pushing back her hood now that she's away from the public. She can see the change in how the people around her look at her. They know what she did, and they'll remember it, no matter how much Clarke wants to forget. She thought her walk would make her feel better, but she can feel the familiar heavy weight settling on her shoulders.

She finds Lexa holding council in her throne room, perched in her chair with her spine straight and her bad leg stretched out in front of her. Her pants hide all signs of bandaging from the members of her coalition. She's not surprised. What _does_ startle her, however, is Roan's presence, slouched in one of the chair's provided, his chin resting on his knuckles. Clarke stands at the back of the room, though by Lexa's decree she has as much a right to a chair as everyone else, and frowns. Roan wears no shackles, and he looks well groomed and well fed, wearing clothes of a fine make that clearly match his status as prince.

Lexa's eyes flick to Clarke once, briefly, before she focuses her full attention on her council once more. It shouldn't be a surprise that Roan is there; he's the only true connection that Lexa has to the Ice Nation after all. It's more how casual it all is that throws her so badly. On the other hand, Lexa clearly trusted him enough to have him bring Clarke to her, even if it extended no further than that. She crosses her arms and leans back against the wall, staying silent and trying to keep up with the conversation as much as she can. Her Trigedasleng has improved, but with so many people talking so quickly and all at the same time, it's difficult to follow. It's not hard to pick up the general gist of the conversation, though. No one's happy, that much is clear. What remains to be seen is what Lexa plans to do about it.

Clarke feels guilt creeping in. It would be simple to deal with Azgeda if the council weren't so divided. Lexa's decision to bring Clarke's people into her fold had been met with mixed opinions, and Clarke can't blame them. They don't exactly have the best history. Lexa may be able to see past that, but not everyone has her open mind. There's no way of really knowing who is truly allied with Lexa and who will or already has thrown their weight on Azgeda's side. Clarke examines the faces she can see and catches Roan's eye. He tips his chin up at her, just slightly, his face showing nothing. Clarke frowns. Lexa might lift his banishment, but what then? There's too many variables, and all they do is raise the hairs on the back of Clarke's neck.

Roan almost looks like he's going to laugh before he looks back to Lexa. The commander stands with an ease Clarke didn't think possible. “ _Disha takim ste odon_ ,” she says firmly, cutting through the steadily growing noise. She looks at Clarke again. “We will resume tomorrow.” Almost at once all the heads in the room turn to face her, save for Roan, who simply stands with a stretch and strides from the room. Clarke pushes off the wall and ignores the stares as she approaches Lexa's throne. Slowly the men and women file out. Lexa waits until the doors shut behind the last woman before sinking into her seat, a flicker of pain crossing her face. She closes her eyes and splays her fingers across her brow before tucking a loose locke of hair behind her ear.

“Are you actually capable of resting or do you just never stop?” Clarke asks.

Lexa sighs, heavily, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I cannot spend all day in my bed, Clarke,” she says in a tight voice. “There is a war brewing and I must do all I can to stop it from boiling over.”

“You can't do that if you're barely strong enough to stand,” Clarke says firmly.

Lexa looks up sharply, her eyes narrowing.

“I wasn't aware that accepting you into my coalition gave you the authority to dictate how I live my life.”

“No, but you naming me as your doctor did. You should have at least used crutches, _or_ ,” she hastily continues at the look on Lexa's face, “waited for Raven to finish building the brace.” Lexa has nothing to say to that, or if she does she bites her tongue. Clarke sighs, feeling her shoulders slump.

“I heard you went to see Polis today,” Lexa says into the silence. “Was it everything you expected it would be?”

“More,” Clarke answers. “It's beautiful.”

A tiny smile graces Lexa's lips. “I'm glad you think so. I would have liked to show you myself.”

Clarke smiles, but it's sad and feels heavy. “Maybe someday,” she says softly.

“Maybe someday,” Lexa echoes.

“Come on,” Clarke says, moving towards the chair with her arms out. “Let's go find Raven. She'll probably need your leg to make some last minute adjustments anyway.”

Lexa snort humourlessly and grabs Clarke's shoulder, hauling herself to her feet. Indra must have helped her walk down, because her limp is far too pronounced for her to have made it without any help. She lets Lexa guide her, though Clarke supports her weight, and leads them down less frequently used passages, avoiding as many people as they can. The elevator takes them down more floors than Clarke bothers to keep track of, to an area of the tower that looks just as fine but is clearly meant for work and not for living. Clarke glances through the broken windows of closed doors into kitchens and sick rooms, to laundry rooms and storage. Lexa's breathing is starting to grow ragged, and Clarke is grateful when she spots Raven in one of the workshops, her back to the door, surrounded by parts Clarke can't put a name to with one Grounder curiously watching her.

“Here,” she says softly, shouldering the door open and holding it so Lexa can waddle in. The Grounder quickly grabs a stool and helps her onto it before returning to Raven's side. Raven glances over her shoulder and rubs blackened fingers across her brow, smearing the smudge that's already there.

“Oh, good,” she says, hefting a brace that looks almost identical to her own off the table. “I really didn't want to go all the way back up there to fit this. Leg out.” Lexa glances at Clarke, who raises her brows, then grips the sides of her stool and stretches out her leg as much as she can. “Is she still all wrapped up?”

“Yeah,” Clarke replied and puts her hands under Lexa's calf when her leg begins to tremble. “I can't take it off permanently yet, it's still healing.”

Raven makes a noise in the back of her throat and begins to place the brace around Lexa's leg. Clarke moves her hands to accommodate. Lexa's knuckles are white.

“I guess I'll just have to adjust it again after,” Raven says. She sounds like she wants to sigh but doesn't, and buckles up the straps. The brace doesn't quite cover the entirety of Lexa's leg like Raven's does hers, but it doesn't need to, at least as long as she still has feeling in it. “How's that feel?” she asks Lexa. “Too loose? Too tight?”

“It's fine,” Lexa says.

“It needs to be perfect,” Raven says, “not fine. Otherwise it won't work right.”

Lexa's jaw shifts, just once. “Loose.”

“That's what I thought,” Raven replies, and gives the straps a few tugs. “Better?”

“Yes,” Lexa says.

“Good,” Raven replied. “Now bend your knee.”

Lexa hesitates, but does. Her neutral expression flickers, her brows twitching, but whatever Raven did must have worked, because there's no wince or inhale. Lexa gently sets her foot on the ground. Clarke almost sighs in relief. Maybe she'll actually wear it.

“Well?” Raven prompts. “It's not supposed to help you sit down. Last I knew your ass wasn't busted. You gonna test it out or not?”

“Raven,” Clarke hisses.

“What?” Raven asks. “I didn't build it for it to not be used.”

“It's fine, Clarke,” Lexa says. Her fingers loosen around the edge of the stool, and very slowly stands, putting her weight on her good leg first. When she shifts it she sways, but Raven puts a hand on Clarke's arm to stop her from reaching out.

“It feels a bit funny at first, I know,” Raven says to Lexa. “But I promise it'll help.”

Lexa holds her head high as she takes her first few awkward steps, but Clarke can't help feeling like she's putting on an act for Raven's Grounder assistant. What she really wants to do is get Lexa back into the privacy of her room where they can really test how well Raven's brace works without the need for facades. Still, there's a clear difference in how Lexa moves from one side of the room to the other and back. There'll be no escaping the limp, but at least she won't need anyone's support to walk.

“How's it feel?” Raven asks. “Anything cutting in anywhere, moving around, that kind of thing?”

“No,” Lexa says. “No, it's... good.”

“Good'll have to do, then,” Raven says. Lexa makes her way back to the stool and sits again. “Let me fix a couple last things and I'll have it back to you tonight.” Lexa only nods and slowly extends her leg to let Raven remove the brace. Lexa shrugs off Clarke's help, aware of the Grounder standing nearby.

“Clarke?” she asks.

“One second,” she says, her eyes on Raven, whose face is a barely concealed mask of pain.

Clarke waits for Lexa to leave the room and for the other Grounder to politely turn away before she touches Raven's shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asks.

At least Raven doesn't shrug her hand off. “You mean aside from being in a stupid amount of pain almost every single minute of every single day for the past three months? I'm fine.”

“Has Mom looked at it?”

“Of course she has,” Raven says. “That doesn't mean I'm gonna let her do anything about it.”

“Why?” Clarke asks, frowning. “She can help.”

“Don't you have your own problems to deal with?” Raven asks, and Clarke gets the feeling she's had this conversation before.

“Why are you so determined to deal with all of this on your own?” Clarke asks, feeling frustration welling up.

Raven looks over her shoulder, tightness in her jaw. “Why are you ?” she fires back, and Clarke doesn't have an answer. “Yeah, that's what I thought.” She turns her back again. “I'll bring this up later.”

It's a dismissal and Clarke knows it. She leaves and Raven's new Grounder friend takes her place. The tension in Clarke's shoulders travels down her arms to her hands. She stretches her fingers until they hurt and stops at the end of the hallway to press her brow against the cool concrete and breathe out a harsh breath. She doesn't know how long she stands there, but the only thing that makes her move is familiar, halting footsteps moving towards her.

She almost expects Lexa to touch her, but no contact comes, only her soft, questioning voice. “Clarke?”

“I'm fine,” Clarke says, pushing herself off the wall. She's lying, and Lexa knows, it's clear by the look she gives, but she doesn't push. She never has.

“Will you join me for lunch?” It's an offer of comfort, and Clarke can't refuse.

“Yeah,” she says. “I could eat.” Lexa touches her arm, shifts some of her weight to Clarke, and they walk. Clarke's fingers ache with the desire to lace them with Lexa's, to feel something physical, to just, for once, let herself follow rather than lead. But she doesn't, and the feeling passes, despite the warmth of Lexa's palm through the sleeve of her shirt. Another day, she thinks, maybe, when her obligations end and her wounds heal. Maybe then she can finally let go.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“I know someone is feeding her information,” Lexa says. Clarke sighs and tips her head back. She's been listening to Lexa say the same three things for the past half hour, and pace around the room while she does it. At least it means that Raven's brace is working. “One nation cannot possibly hope to stand again my might, yet she decimated an entire regiment of my warriors, all trained from birth, hardened by battle. I should kill them all. They have grown too greedy.”

“You can't kill everyone you don't trust, Lexa,” Clarke says. “I've told you that before.”

“Can't I?” Lexa snaps, throwing Clarke a glare that would have made anyone else cower, but only makes Clarke irritated. “They spit on what I have given them. They _squabble_ like children, they can't agree on anything-”

“They're scared,” Clarke says. “They're diplomats, not warriors.”

“We are all warriors,” Lexa says. “We do not bow. We do not break. We do not. Retreat. They are cowards is what they are, and when I find who has betrayed me I will have their blood.”

“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe Nia is acting alone? It's not the first time she's made a move against you.”

“You were not here last time, Clarke,” Lexa says. “She is lucky her nation still exists. Her lust for power is insatiable. She will promise anything to get it, threaten everyone, kill anyone.” Her voice cracks at the end and she clears her throat “There is no one I can trust.” She looks up again, her eyes softening. “Only you.”

“I know you're under a lot of stress right now but you need to think things through,” Clarke says as calmly as she can manage. “Killing all of your advisors just because you suspect them of treachery is only going to make you look weak.”

“I already look weak,” Lexa says. “They know I am wounded. Any one of them could call for a vote of no confidence and if I am found wanting I will not be able to defend myself. Not like this.”

“So prove to them that you're still fit to lead.”

“What do you think I've been trying to do?”

Clarke sighs. “I know you think that killing everyone would solve the problem, but that will only make everyone think you're afraid.” Lexa's glare is light. “You're not alone, Lexa. You don't have to do this all on your own.”

Lexa sighs and joins Clarke on the sofa, stretching her leg out with a silent wince. She's taken to wearing the brace under her clothing, at Clarke's insistence. Clarke doesn't care if it's hidden or not as long as its on. She can already see the improvement in Lexa's movement. Maybe one day it'll be like she was never hurt at all.

“And what of your people?” Lexa asks. “Our people. Have you heard from Bellamy?”

“No.” Clarke says with a pang of worry. “No, he's...”

“Vanished. The same way you did.”

“What happened at Mount Weather wasn't his fault,” Clarke says.

“Wasn't it?” Lexa replies.

Clarke frowns at her. “No, it wasn't. He didn't plant the bomb and he didn't pull the trigger. He just trusted the wrong person.” If Lexa were anyone else she would have withered at the implication, but she simply nods her head.

“And do you trust Bellamy?”

“With my life,” Clarke replies immediately.

Lexa folds her hands in her lap, twists her fingers around each other. “And me?” A heavy question. Clarke feels it linger in the air between them, feels it worm its way deeper into her mind. Because that's the meat of it, isn't it? Clarke had trusted the wrong person. Or so she had thought. She's had a long time to mull over what Lexa did, and come to the unsettling conclusion that she would have done the same thing if it had meant saving her people, no matter what she felt for Lexa.

“I don't know,” she says, honestly, “but I'm still here, aren't I?” Lexa nods, but Clarke doesn't miss the flash of pain in her eyes. Clarke clears her throat and gets to her feet. “I think I'm going to go... find Raven. See how she's doing.”

“Of course,” Lexa says. All trace of pain is gone, her face as neutral as ever. An awkward smile twitches at Clarke's lips as she leaves. It had been an excuse to leave before things could grow more awkward between them, but Clarke finds herself seeking Raven out anyway. After a search of her room provides nothing, she heads down to the workshop where Raven had done most of the construction on Lexa's brace and finds her tinkering with something Clarke can't name. Clarke wordlessly pulls over a stool and sits next to her.

After a moment, Raven says, “Hand me that, would you?” and points. Clarke reaches across the table for what looks like a small wrench and places it in Raven's hand. “So, what brings you to my corner of your little tower?”

“It's Lexa's tower,” Clarke says.

“So, your tower,” Raven replies.

Clarke bites back a sigh. “Company,” she says, “and... questions.”

“About what?” Raven asks. Her voice is easy enough, but Clarke sees her shoulders tense.

“About... what happened in the mountain.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you had been there you would know.”

“Yeah, and I might also be dead, just like everyone else.”

Raven scoffs. “Like your mom would have ever let you go in there again.”

“She lost the right to let me do anything when she _let_ me be sent down here to die.” She plays with the parts scattered across the table, old resentment and bitterness rising up in her chest. She quashes it down as best she can. “I don't need all the gory details I just... need to know what happened.”

Raven sighs, softly and puts down whatever it is she's fiddling with. Clarke recognizes the look in her dark eyes all too well.

“I don't really know,” she says. “It's all... it blurs together. Bellamy said...” And in jolting, stuttered sentences Raven goes through it all, until Clarke's palm is bleeding where her nails have cut into her skin and her heart aches for all the lives lost. It's no wonder that Bellamy has disappeared.

She doesn't say sorry. There's no point. It won't change anything, and she's growing sick of apologies. “Do you think he'll come back?”

“I don't know,” Raven says. “He just... vanished. Like you did. With no warning.”

“He'll have to,” Clarke says. “Eventually he'll have to.”

“Would you have?” Raven asks. “If Lexa hadn't sent a bounty hunter after you would you have ever come back to us? Because we looked for you, and... from where I'm sitting you look pretty happy here.”

“I don't know,” Clarke says. “It was something I needed to do. To... try and wash the blood off my hands.” Clarke looks down at them, at her bleeding palm and her dirty nails, at skin roughened by hard use, and all she sees is red. Raven touches her hand, bidding Clarke to look up with tired, burning eyes.

“It wasn't your fault,” Raven says.

“I've heard that before,” Clarke says.

“No one thinks it is.” She pauses. “Well, Jasper, he...” She laughs, but it's dry and humourless. “He needs to pull his head out of his ass, really, but. We missed you, okay? And... it's really good to see that you're okay. Even if I don't show it much.”

“But you're not okay, are you,” Clarke says.

Raven's jaw tenses and shifts, but she sighs and shakes her head. “No. Not since the explosion. Something... I don't know. It just... It hurts, Clarke. Every single second. It keeps me up at night, it makes it hard to walk, impossible to run, it-”

“Why haven't you let Mom fix it?”

“Because I don't need help,” Raven says. “I can deal with it on my own, I just need to, I don't know, stretch it out or something. I don't want more surgeries, more poking and prodding, more people thinking that I'm weak.”

“It sounds like it's more than that.”

“Yeah, well,” Raven says, and that's that. Clarke sits in silence, playing with the tools on the table, rolling around crude screws and passing pieces to Raven when she needs them. She sits there for an hour, maybe more, before one of the Grounders finds them.

“The commander wants you,” she says, eyes on Clarke.

“Did she say why?” The Grounder looks at her like she's asked a stupid question. Clarke sighs. “Right. Raven, will you-”

“I'm fine,” Raven says. “Better not to keep your girlfriend waiting.”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Clarke says. The Grounder just looks confused.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Raven says as Clarke and her escort leave the room.

 

Lexa is sat at the foot of her bed when they arrive, eyes folded and legs folded. One hand is on her knee, the brace and bandaging gone. Her pant leg is cut above the injury, baring her skin for Clarke's scrutiny. She shuts the door behind her, softly.

“What are you-” Clarke manages to get out before Lexa shushes her. Clarke makes a face, one of mild irritation, and crosses her arms over her chest. She can study Lexa's knee, at least, while it's quiet. It's a mangled mess of scar tissue. Lexa's fingers massage it gently, almost absently. Clarke stands in front of her and waits until her eyelashes flicker and her eyes open. She blinks up at Clarke.

“I was meditating,” she says. “Seeking guidance.”

“From who?” Clarke asks.

“The past commanders.”

“And have they said anything useful?”

Lexa sighs and stretches out her legs. “No. Which is why I now have a favour to ask of you.”

“Which is?”

“Take a walk with me tonight. Through Polis.”

Clarke frowns. “What?”

“I told you I wanted to show you the city. I still do. If you'll allow me.”

“That... doesn't seem very relevant.”

“I need to clear my mind,” Lexa replies. “It's very relevant.” There's something she's not saying, but Clarke knows not to ask. She'll be told when Lexa thinks she needs to know.

“At night?” she asks instead.

“It's a different world,” Lexa replies easily. “Will you?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, partly because she wants to and partly because she knows it's what's expected, and Lexa is the one person she can handle having expectations of her.

“Good,” Lexa says. She closes her eyes again. “You should speak to your mother. She was looking for you earlier.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You should be grateful you still have her, Clarke,” Lexa says softly without opening her eyes. “Some are not so lucky.” There's the weight of knowledge in her words. “She's in the hospital. Maybe you can offer her your aid. I'll find you later.” Clarke leaves, hesitant, but knowing she'll go anyway. Her stomach twists and her heart flutters as she rides the elevator down the tower. She shouldn't be nervous about seeing her mother, and she's not, really; it's the conversation she knows she needs to have that really bothers her. All the things that went unspoken. What the hell is going to happen now that everything's gone to shit.

When she reaches the hospital she finds that her mother is gone. An awkwardly phrased question to one of the healers tells Clarke that she went back to the Skaikru quarters. Clarke turns down and offer to guide her and tries to push away the sudden rush of anxiety. It was hard enough working up the courage to face her mother, but to face whoever else was there, with their judgement and their pity and their questions... that was something altogether different.

Still, she goes. There's plenty of room in the tower for what's left of Clarke's people and she finds them easily enough. What awaits her, though, isn't what she expected. She thought there would be... more. A sharp pain cracks through her heart. How many of them died in Mount Weather? How many lives has this world taken? She finds herself desperately looking for familiar faces. She sees a handful of ones she recognizes from the drop, but, so many of them are gone. Monty, Miller, Jasper, Monroe, Harper... the people her and Bellamy fought tooth and nail to protect. She lingers outside the door to the room where she can go unnoticed and tries to still her racing thoughts. Are they dead or not? If they're alive, then where are they? With Bellamy? God, she hopes so.

She's never felt less like one of them than she does when she finally enters the room, dressed like a Grounder, with new cuts and scars and braids in her hair. The only thing missing is war paint. Once one person looks up it's like a chain reaction. Where are the rest of them she thinks again. Her mouth goes dry and her throat tightens. The murmurs start soon after. Clarke tries to ignore all the eyes on her and looks for her mother.

“Clarke?” She hasn't heard that voice in months. She whirls around, her heart in her throat.

“Kane.”

He doesn't respond, just closes the distance between them in a few broad steps and tugs her against his chest, his hand on the back of her head. She can hear his heart pounding and almost collapses, her knees going weak.

“God, it's good to see you,” Kane says. “Everything's been so crazy lately. It's like there's barely time to breathe.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs out. She hesitantly hugs back, letting her fingers grip the tough leather of his jacket. She closes her eyes and for a second lets herself be eighteen. She pulls away to study him. There's more lines around his eyes, more grey in his beard. Clarke wonders how different she looks from when she first touched down with the others. “Where's Mom?”

“Back in the bedrooms,” Kane says. “Come on, I'll take you to her.” With his hand on the small of her back, he guides Clarke through the living area, past the curious, wary eyes of a dozen teenagers. Abby's sitting in a chair with her fingers splayed across her brow, and she could almost be asleep if it weren't for the tension that Clarke can see. That and the fact that as soon as Kane says her name she opens her eyes and straightens.

“I'll leave you two to talk,” Kane says quietly and squeezes Clarke's shoulder. Clarke doesn't move from her spot, letting the length of the room stretch between her and her mother.

“I thought there were more,” Clarke says.

“There were,” Abby says, “once. We're so scattered now... But that's not why you're here. Is it Lexa?”

“No,” Clarke says, “it's not Lexa. Her leg is... healing.” She resists the urge to hug herself and isn't sure if she wants to run into her mother's arms or follow Kane out of the room. “I came to see you.” The words feel awkward. “To say... I don't know.”

“You don't really want to be here, do you,” Abby says. Clarke feels horrible when she shakes her head. “Well, you are, so say what you think you need to say.”

“I'm sorry-” Clarke croaks out. It feels like all she's doing is apologizing. Apologizing for trying to keep everyone she cares about safe. She never asked for this. She never wanted it. She never wanted any of it. She never wanted her father to die, never wanted to be imprisoned, never wanted to be sent down to the Earth in the first place. She never wanted to be the leader of a bunch of broken, scared teenagers. She never wanted to spend her eighteenth birthday in the middle of thick woods covered in all manner of shit. The tears come unbidden to her eyes and no matter how hard she tries she can't stop them. Within seconds she's a sobbing, snivelling mess, and when she feels her mother's familiar arms around her it's all she can do to keep standing.

“It's okay,” Abby says, stroking her hair. “Everything's okay.” Abby's voice is thick and it does nothing to stop Clarke from crying. Somehow they end up sitting on one of the beds, Clarke clutching at her mother's shirt like it's the only thing keeping her afloat, muttering apologies for the things she actually is sorry for; for being such a horrible daughter, for all the years she blamed Abby for what happened to her father, for leaving everyone behind for three months and not giving a rat's ass if they thought she was alive or not.

It takes a long time for her to cry herself out. Her apologies are all used up and her eyes are red and raw. She pulls away from her mother, tired, but feeling lighter than she has in a long time. She rubs at her eyes which does nothing to make them hurt less and squints up at Abby's familiar face. Abby smiles, weakly, and reaches out to thumb one of Clarke's damp cheeks.

“I know you're just trying to be the good guy, Clarke” she says, “but sometimes there are no good guys, you know that. You don't have to punish yourself for things that are out of your control.” Clarke pulls her legs up to her chest and leans into Abby's side and closes her tired eyes, just for a bit. Just for a bit...

 


	9. Chapter 9

The words stay with her as she makes her way back through dusk and torch lit corridors in the shadow of a guard to meet Lexa, but flee from her head the second she sees who stands at the commander's side. Roan's expression is as smug as always, and there's an amused glint in his eye when he sees the look on Clarke's face. His own is painted almost completely black, leaving only the whites of his eyes visible. Lexa's is the same, and they're both dressed in dark clothing. Clarke doesn't fail to notice the hilts of Lexa's swords sticking up behind her shoulders. They're hidden, partly, close to the tower exit, bathed in the darkness of the coming night. 

Lexa holds a dark cloak out to Clarke. 

“What's going on?” she asks instead of taking it. “Why is he here?” 

“We're going to have a walk around the city, Clarke,” Lexa says. There's something not quite right about her tone. “Put this on. It's cold.” 

Clarke shoots Roan a wary glance but takes the cloak and wraps it around her. Lexa tugs the hood up over her hair. Her fingers graze Clarke's cheeks as she drops her hands. Her eyes glitter in the light of the nearest torch as she dips her fingers in paint and with a few broad strokes covers Clarke's skin. It smells sweet and earthy, but makes her nose itch. 

“This way,” Roan says. Lexa tucks the paint away somewhere and follows right at his heels. Clarke fumbles her way forward until her eyes adjust to the dark and she can see the outlines of the bodies in front of her. As the minutes pass she picks out more and more detail; the edges of buildings, smudges of paint and graffiti on walls. Roan takes them on a winding path through the city, taking so many twists that Clarke quickly loses any hope of retracing their steps. Her first instinct is to ask Lexa what the hell is going on, but she knows better than to break the fragile silence of the night. They're definitely doing more than just taking a nice walk around the city. 

 

Clarke's feet are aching by the time they finally stop at the corner of a building, looking out onto the dilapidated remains of a shadowy courtyard, lit only by faint snatches of moonlight. Her months on the ground have done much to improve her stamina, but she'll never be able to match Roan and Lexa's constitutions. They seem barely out of breath, while Clarke's heart is racing and she has to fight to control her breathing. Neither of them offer her so much as a glance, and if it wasn't for the glint of their eyes in the darkness Clarke wouldn't know they were there at all. She knows better than to speak, and instead tries to keep an eye out for whatever it is Roan and Lexa are waiting for. 

After what seems like an age she catches movement from the other side of the courtyard. A hooded figure emerges, only looking out of place because of the late hour. Clarke slides up, fighting to see around Roan's broad form without moving out of the cover they've found. She strains her eyes in the darkness. It's not long before a second figure emerges, feminine in stature. Neither lower their hoods. Roan growls something under his breath, but Lexa remains completely silent, her body tense. The conspirators speak, but Clarke can hear nothing more than the whisper of their voices on the wind. She wonders if Roan or Lexa can make out anything more. From the tensing of Lexa's shoulders it seems that she can. She lifts her hand and starts to reach out to grab Lexa's shoulder, but thinks better of it at the last second and forces it back down to her side. 

One of the figures shifts and the flash of moonlight across their face reveals the unmistakeable scarring of the Ice Nation. Roan makes a noise that sounds like a curse under his breath and the leather of Lexa's gloves creaks as she clenches her fists. When Roan makes a move to confront the conspirators she throws her arm out across his chest to stop him and gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Roan removes his hand from his weapon, but the look in his dark eyes tells Clarke the last thing he wants to be doing is following Lexa's orders. Clarke turns her attention back to the two cloaked figures, waiting for the other to turn and show their face, but the meeting breaks before they do and both of them slip back into the night. Their little band doesn't move for several minutes. Finally, when the all clear is given, Roan rounds on Lexa. 

“You're too rash,” Lexa says before he can open his mouth. “If we had tried to take them they would have gotten away and worse, would have notified their superiors that they have been exposed and we would lose what little information we have. We know for a fact that Azgeda is involved, and that is better than nothing. This traitor will not last long.” Roan grunts, but doesn't argue. Lexa's silence on the tiring walk back to the tower makes Clarke worry. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and for a handful of long moments she can't shake the feeling that she's being watched. 

The three of them part silently when they return and Clarke follows Lexa to her room, her concern outweighing her common sense and the one that tells her Lexa would probably rather be alone. Still, though Lexa shoots Clarke a not so friendly glare, she doesn't tell her to leave. Clarke takes up the responsibility of lighting candles and lamps, filling the room with a soft orange glow as Lexa fumbles about in the dark, an unmistakable limp in her gait. She's thrown her cloak to the floor and has filled a basin with water to wash the paint off her face before Clarke finishes her task and approaches her. 

“Let me look at your leg,” she says. 

Lexa splashes water on her face. It blinks in the light of the candle nearest to her as it drips from her nose and chin. “There's no need for that,” she says. 

“You put your well-being in my hands,” Clarke says, “and as your doctor I'm telling you to let me look. I know it's been bothering you.” A muscle in Lexa's jaw twitches. For a moment Clarke thinks she's going to be told to leave, but Lexa simply rubs her face with a towel and continues to turn the water from clear to black and brown with flecks of paint before turning to Clarke, the rag in her hand. She's rough in her attentions, and her fingers are a bit too tight on Clarke's chin, but the tenderness in her eyes offsets it and makes Clarke's chest feel tight and her lungs ache for air. Her skin feels raw when Lexa finishes and the water is black. She tosses the towel to be picked up later by an attendant and drinks directly from the pitcher. Clarke watches water spill down her throat and dampen the collar of her shirt, not realizing that she's staring until Lexa offers it to her. She drinks greedily and watches as Lexa starts to undress, down to her under shirt and pants, and pads barefoot across to her bed. 

Her hands fumble at the brace. Clarke moves to help. Lexa's brows are furrowed when she looks up, and Clarke expects to be snapped at, but Lexa's hands fall away, pressing instead into the layers of furs she sits upon as she braces herself and looks down at Clarke with the same tired, patient gaze she always has. Beneath the brace Lexa's knee is swollen and Clarke's gently questing fingers make the muscles around it stiffen and Lexa shift on the bed. Not for the first time Clarke wishes she had access to actual real medical supplies. This whole thing cold have been avoided if she had been able to treat Lexa's wound properly. She brushes her thumb across a stretch of shiny scar tissues and bites back a sigh. 

“A long soak in hot water should help,” she says. 

Lexa shakes her head. “It's too late for that,” she replies and pulls her leg from Clarke's grasp, swinging both up onto the bed. It's a dismissive gesture that Clarke full on ignores, instead pushing back up onto aching feet. The flickering flames around the bed cast dancing shadows on Lexa's face. Her eyes reflect the candles, dark and shiny, as she looks up at Clarke with parted lips. Her hair fans across the pillows. She pushes a locke off her brow before clasping her hands over her stomach. 

“Clarke?” she asks. Clarke represses a shiver and shakes her head briefly and sharply, closing her eyes for an instant to clear the fog from her mind. She can't. Not yet. 

“Goodnight, commander,” she says instead. Lexa only tips her chin up in the barest of nods. Clarke leaves the room with Lexa's gaze boring into her back and only breathes normally again when she's down the hall and in her own room, the door securely locked behind her. Now isn’t the time to let her feelings get the best of her. It probably won’t ever be. Besides, she’s not sure if she’s ready or if she ever will be ready. It hurts her head to think about it and when she’s around Lexa it’s hard fun her to think of anything else. She washes off the traces of paint that Lexa missed and dresses herself for bed, but it’s a long time before she falls asleep. Lexa’s position as commander is the only thing keeping her and her people safe. If she’s deposed, or worse, killed then Clarke and everyone she cares about will doubtless be next in line. 

When sleep finally does find her, so too do the nightmares. She's on her horse, urging it through the bodies of dead and dying pressed all around her, watching as two arrows, glinting in the sunlight, make their way towards Lexa. She tries to cry out but her mouth won't open and her limbs feel sluggish and heavy. In her ears echo the pounding of horse hooves and cries of wounded. She sees the first arrow strike, and then the second, and watches again as Lexa slowly falls from her saddle. Clarke is thrown from her mount onto a ground soaked with blood. She inhales it with every breath and the churned mud beneath her feet sucks at her boots.  

No matter how much she moves the distance between her and Lexa never gets any closer and then suddenly Clarke is on her knees before the commander, gathering Lexa's heavy, limp body into her arms. Her clothes are stained and Clarke's hands are black with her blood. She finds the wound and presses on it as hard as she can, biting back a wave of nausea as more blood oozes out between her fingers. Lexa's chest isn't moving. Clarke tries to remember what to do. She knows CPR. It was one of the first things she learned. It shouldn't be this hard to remember.  

Her hands shake as she presses on Lexa's chest, but before she can lean down there are hands grabbing at her and pulling her away. She thrashes at them and screams, "No, Lexa! Lexa! Get off of me! _Lexa!_ " 

"I'm here, Clarke!" 

She shoots awake, sitting up so abruptly that the body beside her recoils before they collide. Her skin is covered in sweat, hot and sticky, hair and shirt damp and plastered to her. Before her eyes can adjust to the light she hears the soft strike of a match and the candle by her bedside blooms to life, illuminating the stranger in her bed. Who isn't really a stranger at all. 

The first thing Clarke feels is embarrassment, followed closely by confusion. "How did you-" 

"Nowhere in this tower is closed to me," Lexa says. "I heard your shouts." She pauses and looks away, hiding her dark eyes from Clarke's view. "I was worried." 

"I'm fine," Clarke says automatically, the lie rolling easily off her tongue. Lexa catches it before Clarke even finishes speaking. 

"How long?" she asks. 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"Clarke," Lexa says, and puts a hand on her wrist. The sound of her name is all it takes. 

"Since the Mountain," she says softly. It feels like defeat admitting it out loud. "I don't know what to do." 

"You did what you had to, Clarke," Lexa says softly. "You did what was necessary to save your people." She pauses and reaches up to push Clarke's hair behind her ear. The touch makes her skin tingle but she doesn't pull away. "I would have done the same. You shouldn't let it torture you this way." 

"It's not that simple," Clarke whispers. 

"Just let it go, Clarke," Lexa says. She strokes Clarke's hair and pulls her down, down until her head is resting against Lexa's shoulder. Her eyes drift shut. "Let it go," she hears, and before she sleeps she thinks that this is the Lexa she loves most, the one that's soft and kind and forever hiding beneath the hard exterior of Heda.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Being around Lexa is like walking on ice after that night, or at least what Clarke imagines walking on ice would be like, unsure of where to put her feet and fearing even the smallest of cracks. Lexa is hell-bent on ferreting out the traitor in her council, but the tension in her jaw and the stiff way she holds her shoulders come from more than that. She wears her brace beneath her trousers and can almost hide her limp; almost, but not quite. Even Clarke can recognize the looks in the eyes of the coalition. They circle Lexa in their minds like hungry beasts, waiting for the right time to go for the throat. The chinks in Lexa's armour are growing larger by the day. Clarke walks the halls of the tower armed and tries to never let Lexa go too far from her sight.

And then word reaches the capital of an attack on a remote outpost, close to a small village. The news comes when Clarke is watching Lexa lecture the _natblidas_ , and aside from herself Aiden is the only one who seems to notice a crack in the commander's facade as the scout frantically whispers into her ear.

“You have all done well today,” she says to the children spread before her, a smile on her face. “Well enough to deserve an early lunch.” They're already scrambling to their feet before Lexa's even finished speaking. Aiden lingers. His eyes, so similar to Lexa's, narrow just slightly. “Yes?” Lexa asks.

Aiden opens his mouth, then seems to decide that it's better to bite his tongue and shakes his head instead. “Nothing, Heda,” he replies, and hurries off to join the others. Lexa's hand, tightly curled into a fist on the arm of her throne, slowly unfurls. Clarke waits, and when Lexa doesn't speak takes the initiative.

“Who's responsible?” she asks.

The look of distrust and anger Lexa gives her cuts straight into Clarke's heart. “ _Skaikru_ ,” she says. “Perhaps twenty, led by a dark skinned man and a boy who thinks he's a warrior.”

“What boy?” Clarke asks, looking to the scout for the answer, but in the back of her mind she already knows.

“Tall,” the scout replies, “skin darkened by the sun, black hair and eyes. A patch on his jacket.”

Clarke closes her eyes and uses the back of Lexa's throne to steady herself. The scout is dismissed with a flick of Lexa's hand. When he's closed the doors behind him she stands, stiffly, and throws her cloak over her shoulder, a rain of crimson down her back. She still walks like a commander, despite her injury and despite how white her knuckles are around the hilt of her sword.

“It has to be someone else,” Clarke says to the back of Lexa's head. “Bellamy wouldn't-”

“Wouldn't what?” Lexa asks without turning to face her. “Wouldn't set fire to a village? Murder my people? Convince others to do the same?”

“He wouldn't,” Clarke says firmly. “I know he wouldn't.”

“You knew a boy, a very long time ago, Clarke,” Lexa says. “Many things changed while you were gone. Not everyone is the same as they were before.”

“You are,” Clarke says, and finally Lexa turns to face her, slowly, her face a tranquil mask.

The silence stretches to the point of discomfort.

“You must decide where your loyalties lie, Clarke,” Lexa finally says. Her words ring in Clarke's ears as she exits the room, leaving Clarke alone to slump into the throne, still warm from Lexa's body, and try to block out the ghosts that suddenly swarm around her like flies around a corpse. The knowledge that Lexa is right sits heavily in her gut. Three months is a long time to be away, especially on the ground where things can change dramatically in only a few seconds. On the Ark Clarke would be certain that everyone was exactly the same as how she left them, but down here, she's not so certain. She wants to believe that it would be outrageous for Bellamy to be responsible for anything like this, but the truth is it's not far off of his personality; always volatile, always quick to anger and slow to think things through. And after everything that's happened at Mt. Weather...

She goes after Lexa. Entry to the commander's room is barred to her, but she pushes her way past regardless and shuts and locks the door behind her. Lexa is on the balcony, half turned towards the door, suspicious of the commotion. The guards bang on the door until Lexa shouts at them to stop.

“What do you want?” she asks, and suddenly it's Lexa before Clarke, not Heda. “I gave instructions not to be disturbed.”

“I'll disturb you all I want. We need to talk.”

“You need to make more accusations, you mean.”

“No, Lexa,” Clarke says. Her frustration builds, fingers clenching into fists. “No. If it's really my people doing this and it's not some ploy by Nia, you need to let me go and speak with them. Bellamy will listen to me.”

“Will he?” Lexa asks. “He seems the kind to do whatever he likes, no matter what others say.”

“He will,” Clarke says, feeling her eyes narrow and her jaw clench. It takes a long, deep breath to calm her down enough to speak again. “I don't need anyone to come with me, I just need to know where they were last. I'll find them and talk to them. Bellamy won't let anyone hurt me.”

A muscle in Lexa's jaw twitches. Her fingers flex, reaching for the hilt of a sword that isn't there.

“These are my people, too, Lexa,” she says. “Remember?”

“Very well,” Lexa says with a dismissive gesture. “Do what you will, Clarke, as always.”

Clarke opens her mouth to snap back, but then she notices the flush on Lexa's face, the way she's holding onto the balcony, the uneven distribution of her weight on her feet and her anger melts away. She crosses to Lexa's side and grabs her wrist, and though Lexa tries to twist her arm away Clarke proves too strong for her.

“What do you _want_ , Clarke?” Lexa asks, her voice full of frustration and pain. “To lay more blame at my feet? Do you think I have so little of that on my plate that you must add more? Do you think that I am not eaten by guilt every day from what I did to you?”

“No, Lexa, that's not why-”

“I did what I had to, Clarke. You of all people should understand that.” She wrenches her arm out of Clarke's lax grip, but hardly goes two steps before she's swaying on her feet. Clarke catches her before she can fall and helps her to the bed.

“I didn't come here to point fingers, Lexa,” she says softly as the commander sinks onto the mattress with a heavy sigh and stretches out her injured leg. Clarke drops to her knees and rolls up Lexa's pant leg, her fingers working at the buckles and straps of the brace. The flesh around her knee is red and swollen, the scar tissue blindingly pale. The outside has healed, but it seems infection has set in beneath. Clarke prods the area even through Lexa's winces.

“Then why are you here?” she asks through clenched teeth. Clarke knows why she came originally; because Lexa is afraid and acting irrational and she needs to keep her head straight if she wants to keep it on her shoulders, but seeing Lexa like this, feverish and throwing accusations that speak to the pain she carries inside of her, Clarke doesn't care about Bellamy or the village, at least not for now.

“The dead are gone, Lexa,” Clarke says, staring into those dark green eyes, so full of emotions Clarke's too afraid to put a name to. “The living are hungry.” The first meeting of their lips feels like coming home. Lexa is slow to react, but Clarke doesn't know if it's because of the fever that's heating her skin or because she's surprised or doesn't feel the same way. After all, Clarke's left it for so long that-

Her train of thought is cut off by the gentle brush of Lexa's tongue against hers. Clarke inhales sharply as she pulls away. Lexa starts to follow but remembers herself and sits on the edge of her bed, her eyes closed and her breathing erratic. Clarke helps her to lie down and covers her with her furs, then goes to tell one of the guard to fetch her supplies from the healers. While she waits, she sits next to Lexa and holds one hand between both of her own. Her skin is clammy and cold, even though her head is burning up.

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, but Clarke hushes her and rubs her thumb across damp knuckles, waiting. Always waiting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not abandoned; school is kicking my ass.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas? Don't kill me.

Not even Clarke can keep watch twenty four seven. When the sleep tugging at her eyes finally starts to get the best of her she asks one of the guards constantly standing outside Lexa's room to send for a healer to watch over Lexa while Clarke snatches a couple hours of much needed sleep. She refuses to leave Lexa's bedside, regardless. The fever has fully taken hold. Clarke won't risk opening Lexa's knee up to try and drain the area unless she has to, but knows that even a small dose of antibiotics could go a long way. It's more than a shame that almost all of what they had was destroyed with the Mountain. The only reliable medicines they have are those the Grounders make themselves. Clarke trusts Lexa to the Grounder healer's care and sleeps in a chair by the bed, bent over with her head pillowed on her arms by Lexa's hips. She has a dreamless sleep, though not a restful one, and finally comes to full wakefulness with the gentle weight of a hand on her head. Whatever child there is still left inside her assumes it's her mother. She stretches, letting out a content groan, and her hands brush a bare leg. Her head shoots up.

Beneath her furs Lexa is naked, one knee poking out from under their warmth. It's Lexa's fingers that are loosely tangled in her hair. Clarke can hear someone poking the fire and can feel the heat as its stoked back to life. Reluctantly, Clarke lifts her head. Lexa's hand slides to the bed with a gentle thump.

“Any change?” she asks in a voice rough from a throat gone dry.

“None, Wanheda,” the healer says. “She woke only briefly for water and bread.”

Clarke blinks her bleary eyes and tugs the blanket over Lexa's knee. There's no harm in her being naked, but she needs to sweat her fever out. “Build the fire up more, please,” Clarke says. “And are there spare blankets anywhere?”

“I will find some,” the healer says, throws another log onto the fire, and slips from the room. One of Lexa's guards looks worriedly into the room before the door shuts on him. The room warms quickly and Clarke starts to sweat. She peels of layers until she's barefoot in her pants and under shirt. It's not much but it helps. Lexa's forehead is shiny with sweat. When the healer returns not long after with the blankets Clarke spreads one more over Lexa's restless form and dismisses the woman.

With Lexa out of comission for an undeterminable amount of time, someone needs to take charge. Clarke knows it's not her place – the Grounders aren't her people – but she needs to do _something_. She doesn't want to leave Lexa alone, but duty calls.

“Don't let anyone in,” she tells the guards when she leaves. “Not until I get back.”

“Sha, Wanheda,” both men say. Clarke leaves Lexa's safety in their hands and goes to where her people have been settled in to find Marcus Kane and come up with a plan to deal with the attack on the Grounders.

She finds him in a mess hall with a dozen or so other Skaikru looking tired but no worse for wear. His face likghts up when he sees her. “Clarke. What can I do for you?”

Clarke sits across from him and leans on the table, wasting no time. “We need to find Bellamy and the others that are still missing,” she says. “If what the Trikru scouts are saying are true and he was part of that raiding party we have to find him and figure out what's going on.”

“What's Lexa say about this?” Marcus asks

Clarke lowers her voice. “Lexa is sick,” she says. “She's not making this decision. I am. I want them found. How many people can we spare without being noticed?”

To his credit, Marcus doesn't question Clarke's authority. “Five or six,” he says. “Most of the Grounders don't know our faces well enough yet.”

“Send them,” Clarke orders. “I want Bellamy found.”

“I'll have it arranged,” Marcus says. “Anything else?”

Clarke chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking. What comes to her next is far from pleasant but more than needed. “I need to go back to the Mountain.”

Marcus chokes on his drink. “What?” he coughs. “Why?”

“Lexa needs medicine,” Clarke says. “ _Real_ medicine. We all do. We just need one sample to reverse engineer. It would help all of us. And whatever else can be salvaged.”

“Clarke, there's nothing left of that facility,” Marcus says. “And even if you could find a way to get in it's beyond dangerous. One wrong move and the whole thing could come crashing down on top of you.”

“I have to risk it,” Clarke says. “I can't just sit around here doing nothing and with the war that's coming we need all the supplies we can get.” She doesn't mention the other reason, the one that says she needs to go back and face the ghosts of all the people she killed when she pushed that button. “I'm not asking for help. I'll go on my own. Just... someone needs to know.” Just in case.

Marcus shakes his head but the look on his face is one of defeat. “When are you going to leave?” he asks.

“As soon as possible. I need you to watch Lexa for me while I'm gone. Hopefully it won't take long.”

“All right,” Marcus sighs.

“Thank you,” Clarke says and stands, turning to walk away.

“You shouldn't go alone,” Marcus says to her back. Clarke keeps walking.

 

She makes the arrangements quickly, determination set deep in her bones. It doesn't stop how her hands shake. She resists the urge to visit Lexa a final time and instead heads to the stables to find a horse. She's saddling one when she hears uneven steps behind her accompanied by long, confident strides. She spins, hand going to the gun hidden under her jacket, but doesn't drop it when she sees who's accompanying Raven.

“What's he doing here?” she asks.

“I figured he'd be good to have along,” Raven says casually. “Brute strength, you know.” Roan grunts out something that could pass for a laugh.

“I'm sorry?”

“For this little expedition into the Mountain you have planned,” Raven replies. She throws a blanket and saddle onto a horse and cinches the strap. Roan gives her a boost up while a stunned Clarke looks on then quickly readies his own mount.

“No,” Clarke finally says.

“Stop trying to play the hero, Clarke,” Raven says sharply. “We both know where that's gotten you in the past. Besides, if there's any tech in there that's still good I'm the only one who'll be able to get it out in one piece.”

“And him?” Clarke asks with a none too friendly look towards Roan. She doesn't trust him as far as she can throw him, exiled prince or no.

“Another pair of hands is always useful,” Roan says. “Especially ones tha can fight.”

“I can fight,” Clarke says sullenly.

“Then all the better for us,” Roan says. They both stare at Clarke in the dim light of the stables until she sighs heavily and finishes tacking her horse. The three of them leave Polis with the sun setting behind them, a trail of shadows against the red sky.

 

The moon gives them light to travel by. Eventually Roan takes the lead with Clarke and Raven following behind. There's no markers to guide them, only their knowledge of the land. Clarke huddles into her jacket, feeling the chill of the night and wishing for the too hot warmth of Lexa's room. They ride through the night, stopping only once to top up their canteens with water from a clear stream, almost silver in the moonlight.

Clarke never wanted to see the bunker entrance again. The area around it is black and pitted, the metal stained with soot and blown out from the door, nothing more than a crumpled bit of steel folded in on itself with no obvious way in. The three of them leave the horses to graze on whatever grass hasn't been charred and prod around what's left of the door with careful steps. Clarke holds her flashlight in her mouth, prying at a bit of steel that looks loose enough to pull away but it doesn't budge.

“There's no getting in this way,” she says through a frustrated sigh. “Where's the nearest tunnel entrance? It's close, right?”

“Those are probably in worse shape than this,” Raven says. “I can always just blow it up?”

“Bad idea,” Roan says. “This way. Leave the horses.”

Clarke hesitates but follows, Raven limping along behind. Clarke can keep track of where they've been but not where they're going. She should be familiar with the area, but it's like her mind has blocked everything having to do with the Mountain from her memory. She follows Roan, not trustingly, but willingly, watching her footing in the dark. She hears Raven curse and stumble but she doesn't fall.

“Here,” Roan says after what feels like a year. Clarke hears the creak of metal over Roan's grunt.

“How do you know about this?” Clarke asks.

“Maps,” Roan replies. “Don't worry, they were handed over to your commander a long time ago.”

Raven hobbles past Clarke to look down the manhole. “Yeah, someone's gonna have to help me down there.”

“How good are your arms?” Roan asks.

“Why?”

“Wide enough I can carry you down.”

Raven scoffs, but there's no other option, not that Clarke can see, and she doesn't want to leave Raven topside alone.

“I'll go first,” she says, shining her light down the hole. The ladder rungs look slick, but steady.

“We'll be right behind you,” Roan says.

Clarke takes a deep breath and starts down the ladder. The fresh scent of open air is replace by the thick scent of cold earth. She hears Roan and Raven's voiced echo down after her, followed by the ring of Roan's boots on the metal. Clarke goes slow and steady until her feet hit solid ground. She shines her light around the tunnel, waiting. Roan touches down a minute later.

“I never want to do that again,” Raven says. She brushes off her pants and looks around. “Seems pretty stable to me. Which way do we go?”

“This way,” Clarke says, shining her light to the left. “It goes back the way we came. I think.”

Roan pulls a stick of chalk from his pack. “Just in case,” he says, a makes a mark on the wall with an arrow pointing towards the ladder. They start walking, Roan pausing to make marks at even intervals. The tunnels are unnerving in their silence, the only noises three people softly breathing and muffled footsteps on the ground. The lights once strung on the walls have ceased to work, leaving Clarke and Raven's flashlight beams as the only way to see. They flit this way and that, looking for unseen threats. It's colder down here, and damp. Clarke feels like she's been buried alive.

“Okay,” Raven says behind her, “I've officially got the chills.”

“Just keep walking,” Roan says. “We're close.” Clarke feels it too, and a few more minutes of walking later the tunnel starts to slope up, and they find another ladder. The same arrangement as before follows, with Clarke leading the way, praying that the exit at the top isn't blocked. Someone must be looking out for them. While it takes all of her strength to shoulder the cover open there's nothing sitting on it. Clarke hauls herself out of the tunnel with a groan of effort and pulls the cover off the rest of the way.

“It's clear,” she says. There's no way it could be anything else judging by the look of the room they've ended up in. It's a utility room of some kind, not one that Clarke recognizes, not that she could with the state its in.

“Holy shit,” Raven whispers when her head pops up.

“We need to find what we're looking for and get out,” Roan says in reply.

“Raven, do you know where we are?” Clarke asks.

“Gimme a second,” Raven says. She picks through some of the rubble and lets out a startled curse when what she finds beneath it is the crushed skull of a man. Clarke gags and turns away, a hand over her mouth. “Out,” Raven says through her own. “Into the hall.” Roan clears away chunks of cement keeping the door from opening and yanks on the handle. The door gives with a creak and promptly falls of its hinges. The echo makes all three of them flinch. Raven inches out into the hall first.

“Here, a sign,” she says, rubbing dust off the wall with her sleeve. “Medical is that way. Control room, too. Follow me.” Clarke doesn't recognize the place. The white, spotless corridors and bright lights she remembers are long gone. There's a vague recollection in her mind, but she trusts Raven's judgement more than her own.

It's not until they pass by the common room that the flashbacks hit her. Dead bodies on the ground, bodies burned beyond recognition, Jasper's anguished cries. The stench of death. Her chest tightens. She had to. She had to save her people. The Mountain were the enemy, they had been from the start. They had never wanted to help the hundred when they came down, just harvest them to make up for their own weaknesses. It would have never stopped if Clarke hadn't ended it.

“Stop,” she whispers, seeing flickers of faces before her eyes. “Stop. Stop. Stop.” She puts her hands over her ears. She can hear Jaspers blame, feel his anger, feel the pressure of the ghosts around her on her chest. Her breathing comes in quick, sharp bursts. She reaches for the wall, feeling it cold and steady beneath a clammy palm. “I had to,” she says under her breath. “I had to. Leave me alone.” She doesn't realize her voice is getting louder until the echo of her own shout frightens her out of her memories. It bounces down the empty corridor before fading into silence, leaving only her harsh breathing to fill the silence. Her vision is blurry and when she blinks she realizes it's tears, filling her eyes and dampening her cheeks. Raven's concerned face comes into focus, Roan behind her, confused but no less worried, though he tries to hide it.

Clarke digs her fingers into the concrete. “I had to,” she tells Raven. “I had to.”

“I know,” Raven says. “You need to forgive yourself. If you can forgive Lexa for leaving us to die, then you can forgive yourself, too.”

“As touching as this is,” Roan says in his gruff voice, “we need to get moving.”

Clarke slowly picks the figurative pieces of herself up off the floor and puts them back together. “Okay,” she says, and that's that.

Several times they find their path blocked but thanks to the Mountain's design there seems to always be a way around, either down another hallway or through a room. Eventually they reach the medical wing, or what's left of it. Clarke takes the lead, searching room after room for anything she can grab. Most of it had been destroyed by the blast. Clarke filled the bag she had brought with her from Polis to the brim with unbroken needles and bottles and jars, anything and everything that looks useful, while Raven picks through the broken equipment and pulls pieces of chips and wires from inside the computer screens. Roan stands by the door with a hand on his knife. When the rooms have been picked clean they move on, Raven in the lead again.

“There's nothing here we can use,” Clarke says. She has what she wanted and now she just wants to leave.

Raven shushes her. “You have no idea how much stuff I can put together from 'nothing',” she says. “Just one more room.” Clarke rolls her eyes and sighs but knows there's no talking Raven out of it. As much as she wants to leave, one more room won't kill them.

 

There's areas of the facility they flat out can't pass through. In others they can shove rubble aside and squeeze through the cracks, but in some to do that would bring the tons of earth above their heads crashing down on them. For the most part it's not a problem. Raven knows where she wants to go and she knows how to get there. Unfortunately, when they near their destination, they find their path blocked.

“Roan, can you do anything about this?” Raven asks. “I just need to get into the door.

Roan shrugs, puts down his pack, and starts to haul rubble out of the way. Clarke places her own bag next to his and moves to help. Raven inches forward, looking for a place to slip through. Roan grunts and shoves a chunk of dirt covered stone out of the way with a rumble that makes all three of them jump back. Somewhere above them something shifts. Clarke holds her breath. When nothing comes tumbling down she relaxes and Roan goes back to digging until Raven can crawl through. She's almost to the other side when her brace catches on the edge of a stone and she jerks it free with a growl. The stone thunks to the ground after her, nearly missing her leg. From the other side of the blockage Raven lets out a few good choice words about the door being stuck and Clarke hears the screech of metal before an almost deafening roar sounds from over her head. She doesn't know what happens next, only that the walls are shaking and there's chunks of dirt falling on her hair. Something above her and Roan cracks and she barely has time to react before Roan is throwing his body weight against hers, slamming her into the wall hard enough to make her head ring. Something else clips her brow hard enough to make her vision go black and then a chunk of the ceiling falls, trapping her and Roan beneath.

 


	12. Chapter 12

When Clarke's consciousness swims to the surface, she has no idea how much time has passed. She becomes aware of herself at first, slowly. Something heavy and warm is on her, her head hurts, and her hearing on one side is muffled. She inhales, deeply. It doesn't come without pain, but it's achy rather than sharp. No broken ribs, then. She tries to move first one arm, then the other. Neither are blocked. She tries to move her legs and finds them pinned down. She opens her eyes. Darkness. Her flashlight is in her bag but she can't see her bag. As her eyes adjust she picks out shapes, and can half sit up to see that it's Roan lying across her lower half, covered in debris with what's probably blood on the back of his head, caked in his hair.

“Roan,” she croaks out, reaching down to shake him. “Roan.” No answer. Clarke shoves instead, trying to roll him off of her, but one of his legs is stuck beneath a chunk of rock. She shimmies herself out backwards instead, pushing herself hard against the wall and bending herself painfully in half until her feet are free and she can stagger upright. It makes her head swim. When she touches her brow her fingers come away sticky. She braces herself on the wall until the blackness at the corner of her vision fades. She checks herself over for any obvious wounds then starts to shove the rubble off of Roan and checks his pulse. He's breathing, but out cold. Clarke fumbles for her pack and finds it, but her light is broken. She curses and chucks it aside.

“Raven!” she shouts, turning around. “Raven, can you hear me?”

Raven's voice sounds like it's a thousand miles away. “Clarke!”

Clarke presses herself to the rubble. “Are you okay?” she shouts through a crack. She hears shifting on the other side and then Raven's voice sounds closer.

“I'm fine,” she says. “Nothing fell over here.

“How long-”

“A couple hours.”

“Roan's unconscious. We need to get out of here.”

“I tried to go around but there's no way through. You need to move the rubble.”

“Everything could collapse again,” Clarke says.

“There's no other choice,” Raven replies. “You need to wake Roan up. I've moved what I can on my side. If you go slow and careful you should be okay.”

“I'll try,” Clarke says.

“I'll keep working from here,” Raven replies. “It'll be fine, Clarke. Is behind you open?” Clarke looks over her shoulder, squinting in the darkness.

“No, but... there's an opening in the corner. At the top. I think it's big enough to get through.”

“It'll have to do, but you need to get me out of here, Clarke.”

“I will,” Clarke says, determined, despite the pain in her chest and the throbbing of her head. “I promise.”

It's slow, painful going. Every rolling pebble or rain of dirt makes Clarke finch and scramble away. She can hear Raven working steadily on the other side. Finally, after half an hour or so, Clarke makes a large enough gap that she can reach through and grab Raven's hand. Both their fingers are torn and bloody. Raven squeezes Clarke's hand tight.

“Is Roan up yet?” she asks.

Clarke bends down low to peer through the hole. “No,” she says. “How much bigger until you can get through?”

“I could now, but my brace-”

“Take it off,” Clarke says.

“What?”

“Take it off. We don't have time and I don't want to risk making this any bigger if you can fit through now.”

“You know I can't walk without it, right?” Raven asks snappishly.

“We'll figure it out,” Clarke says and crawls back to Roan. It takes minutes of shaking, shouting and borderline kicking to finally rouse him. “Get up,” Clarke says sharply. “We need to go. Now.” Behind her, Raven groans and pulls herself through the rock separating them. She yanks her bag after her. Roan lumbers to his feet, responsive but disorientated. “We're getting out of here,” Clarke continues. “Now. Roan, give Raven and I a boost up there.” Roan rubs the back of his head and winces, but shakes himself alert.

“I don't know-” Raven starts, but Roan picks her up and bodily shoves her through the gap in the rubble behind them. Raven curses when she lands and Clarke hears her grumbling but not shouting out in pain. Roan gives her a boost next, making a cup with his hands to lift her up. She pulls herself through, skidding down a slope of concrete , steel and dirt to where Raven sits against the wall sulking. Clarke helps her up and supports her weight until Roan squeezes through the gap and hoists Raven onto his back.

Battered and bloody they make their way through the Mountain back to the tunnel, Raven grumbling under her breath the whole time. For the time it seems like the collapse in the hallway was an isolated incident, but it doesn't make Clarke want to be out of there any less. She hopes her demons stay buried with the bodies they left behind. Raven's flashlight, giving them precious light to walk by. It's easier going back, faster somehow, with Roan's chalk arrows to guide them. Every muscle in Clarke's body aches and her head feels like someone's taken a hammer to it.

“This was officially a dumb idea,” Raven says. “My arms feel like they're going to fall off.”

“Stop complaining,” Roan grunts. “The ladder is right there.”

Clarke's never been happier for fresh air in her life, not even when she stepped on Earth for the first time. Roan puts Raven down, not unceremoniously, and goes in search of the horses. After so long in the dark the sunlight is almost blinding. Clarke's eyes have barely adjusted when Roan leads the horses over to them. He helps Raven to mount, who grumbles about having to make an entirely new brace, and swings into his own saddle. Clarke barely manages to get into hers. She's tired and hungry and in pain, and they've been gone too long. Someone will have noticed by now.. She hopes Marcus got the scouts out of the city, at least.

She doesn't remember much of the ride back to Polis. She sways in her saddle, more asleep than awake. Her thoughts turn to Lexa and the medicines in her bag. She pulls it around, dropping the reins to let her horse follow Roan's, and fishes through the bag. She pricks her finger on a broken needle and curses. Carefully she picks out what was broken in the collapse, tossing it carelessly to the ground. She hadn't looked at labels before, too desperate to grab everything she could, but now in the peace of a foggy fall morning she takes the time, her chest clenching tighter and tighter with each name that's not the one she wants until finally the tension falls. She twists the cap off. There's only a handful of pills inside but it's enough. Thank God it's enough. Her whole body slumps in relief. Carefully, she caps the bottle and cinches her bag tight.

 

There are people watching when they ride back into the city. People with curious eyes and wagging tongues. Roan ignores them, but Clarke can't, not easily. She searches their faces for any sign of distress, for any indication that in the time Clarke has been gone something happened to Lexa, but the Grounders look at peace. Soon their curiosity fades and they go back to their tasks, leaving the little party to ride through the city unimpeded. A fresh wave of adrenaline pushes through Clarke's veins when they reach the tower. They've barely been gone a day but to Clarke it feels like years. It always does when she's away from Lexa. It takes all of her control to find her mother first, in the hospital where she almost always is. She rushes in, heedless of her own wounds, crying,

“I've found antibiotics! Real ones! We need to make more as soon as we can, there's not many in here and Lexa needs them-”

“Clarke, your head!” Abby says. She grabs Clarke's arms and directs her to a bed, forcing her to sit. “What happened?”

Clarke flinches at her mother's poking fingers around the tender wound on her head. “I went back,” Clarke explains as Abby cleans her up and checks for signs of a concussion, which Clarke is almost positive she has. “The Grounders, their medicines are good but Lexa's leg is septic, they can't fight it, but our medicine can. And I found some. Not a lot but I found some. You need to make more.”

“Okay, okay, slow down,” Abby says. “You went back to the Mountain? Are you crazy?”

“I didn't go alone,” Clarke says defensively. “And I'm fine.” She reaches for her bag. “Look, look at everything I found. We can use this, Mom, you know we can.”

“Clarke that place is dangerous, you could have died, and from the looks of it you almost did. Did you tell anyone where you were going? Did you tell Lexa?”

“Lexa isn't awake, Mom,” Clarke says. “That's why I went, because she _needs_ this medicine. She could die without it.”

“Sit still,” Abby says sharply. She closes the wound in Clarke's head, evidently not serious enough to need stitches, with two small butterfly bandages, part of the supplies that had already been in Polis, and orders Clarke to remove her shirt. Clarke sighs and lifts it up, not without wincing. Abby presses on her already bruising ribs, but there's no pain aside from the accompanying ache.

“Go,” Abby says with the same amount of frustration that Clarke is feeling, “but leave that bag here and don't think you've heard the last from me on this.” Clarke's not sure what her mom thinks she can do about anything, but she doesn't question it, just snatches the bottle of antibiotics from her bag and sprints from the room. She doubts Lexa's condition has changed much since she left but she wants to get the antibiotics in her system as soon as possible.

If Lexa's guards, a different pair, are startled by Clarke barging down the hallway they don't let it show. They know Clarke on sight and let her pass without question. Lexa is not alone, but she's still asleep.

“Has she woken at all?” Clarke demands of the woman sitting near Lexa's bed, who surges to her feet at the sound of Clarke's voice.

“No, Wanheda.”

“You can leave now. Thank you.” Clarke checks Lexa's head. She's covered in sweat and there's a faint line between her brows, and she feels as hot as she did when Clarke left, if not hotter. The last thing Clarke wants to do is wake her, knowing that rest is the best thing for the commander, but she needs the medicine, too, and she's not about to shove it down Lexa's throat. Clarke fills a cup with fresh water from the basin by Lexa's bed and sits next to her. She smooths Lexa's hair back from her brow.

“Lexa,” she says softly, hand dropping to Lexa's shoulder to give her a gentle shake. It's far easier to wake her than it was to wake Roan. Lexa's eyelashes flutter and slowly part. Her pupils are blown, but she's responsive.

“Clarke,” she husks in a dry wisp of a voice. Clarke holds the cup to her lips. Lexa drinks long and deep. She seems better after. “Your head,” she says, and lifts a pale hand to touch Clarke's temple.

“I'm fine,” Clarke says, but doesn't brush Lexa's hand away. “I have medicine for you. Good medicine. Antibiotics to stop the infection.” She opens the bottle and tips a pill into her palm, but before she can offer it to Lexa Lexa's hand has snaked around the back of Clarke's neck and pulled her down, nails digging into her skin as she presses their lips together in a firm, lingering kiss that has Clarke's heart pounding right out of her chest. She's breathless when Lexa lets her go.

“I have medicine,” she repeats.

“Very well,” Lexa says, settling back against her pillows. Clarke gently pushes the pill between Lexa's lips and hands her the cup again. When Lexa splutters on the water Clarke helps her to sit up. Her blankets slip down to pool around her hips. Clarke turns her eyes away but can't stop the blush that spreads across her face. Lexa coughs harshly once then settles back against the pillows and pulls the furs back over her chest, but offers no apology.

“You went back,” Lexa says.

“I had to,” Clarke replies.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Lexa asks and Clarke knows she doesn't mean the medicine.

Clarke hesitates, searching her mind for the truth. “Yeah,” she says eventually. “I did.”

“I'm glad,” Lexa says. Clarke has never known Lexa to look shy, but she does then, pulling her lip between her teeth. “Will you stay?” she finally asks. “I'm so cold.” Clarke could grab another blanket, but she knows that body heat will serve Lexa best. Her heart thumps loudly in her ears as she peels off her clothes, one by one. She could do with a bath, but if she's honest with herself she's surprised she's stayed awake this long. Lexa watches cautiously, as if she's afraid that Clarke will berate her for staring. Clarke fights the urge to cover herself and does her best not to look at Lexa when she lifts the blankets to climb in. Lexa's body is hot and sweaty but she's shivering. Clarke folds her into an embrace, trying to ignore the intimacy of it all. Lexa's heat warms her own cold body, and while it doesn't bring any relief to the pain in Clarke's head and side it makes her forget she's hurt at all. She closes her eyes and lets her face rest between Lexa's shoulder blades, against the top of her tattoo. After a few minutes Lexa finally stop shaking and her breathing evens out. Clarke places her hand on a firm stomach, folds her other arm under her head, and sighs out the tension in her shoulders, letting sleep find its way to her.

 

She sleeps for a long time. Longer than Lexa. When she does wake up she's groggy and has no comprehension of how much time has passed. The bed is empty save for her. She sits up, forgetting that she's naked until cool air hits her bare skin, and looks around the room, bright with daylight. Lexa is sitting on her sofa, reading, barefoot in a loose shirt and pants, her hair unbraided and falling in gentle waves around her shoulders. Clarke _aches_ , everywhere. She presses a hand to her brow, gingerly feeling along the wound. It hurts, but it’s not swollen. The bruises on her ribs are darker, though, and even sitting hurts. She rubs sleep fro! Her eyes and turns her attention back to Lexa.

“Your fever broke.”

“Yes,” Lexa says, looking up from her book. “I couldn’t stay in bed. Kiara said I was fine to move, and I know my own strength.”

“You should still be resting.”

“You're the one who should be resting,” Lexa says. “I see the bruises on you, Clarke. You must be sore.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Clarke grumbles. She leans carefully over the side of the bed, fishing for clothes, and slips on pants and a shirt beneath the blankets. Lexa cocks a brow at her as she stands but wisely remains silent. With a supportive arm wrapped around her sore ribs, Clarke makes her way over to the sofa, with a new ache in her leg. She doesn't know what it's from, but can guess that having had Roan passed out on her has something to do with it. She limps past Lexa and collapses on the sofa with a pained grunt and a wince.

“My spies reported a small party of your people leaving the city under cover of darkness,” Lexa says without preamble.

“I asked Marcus to find out the truth behind the attack on the village,” Clarke says honestly. “I need to know. I'm sure you do, too.”

“Thank you,” Lexa says. If Clarke is honest with herself it's not the answer she expects.

“You said my people are yours, too. It'd be hypocritical of me not to treat yours the same way.” The look Lexa gives her makes Clarke's chest grow tight. She licks dry lips. “We should hear back from them soon, I hope.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, almost hesitant, “perhaps I was hearing things incorrectly, but... is it correct for me to assume that, you and I, that we might-”

“Are you asking if I'm ready?” Clarke says. Lexa nods. “I want to keep you safe, more than anything else.”

“I am the commander, Clarke. I don't need you to keep me safe.”

“I know the council isn't happy. They'll challenge you sooner rather than later. You can't fight like that.”

“I can and I will, if I must.”

“You'll be slaughtered, Lexa.”

“You've never seen me fight,” Lexa says stiffly.

“Do they even know you're sick? Do they know you can't walk properly without a brace?” Clarke has lost control of the conversation and she doesn't know how it happened. It shouldn't be this hostile. Clarke backtracks. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Yes you did,” Lexa says. Her voice is stiff but not unkind. “You never say what you don't mean.”

“Maybe I should practice it.”

Lexa sighs and thumbs the pages of her book. “I know you're concerned, Clarke, but it will take a unanimous decision to unseat me as commander and I know very well how to play the council. I am more than a physical leader. I have all the commanders' spirits inside me, generations of wisdom to guide me.” She touches the back of her neck. “I will prevail, despite this injury.”

Clarke slumps, sighs, and closes her eyes. She's so tired.

“I know,” Lexa says. There's a warm hand on Clarke's knee. “I am, too.” Clarke didn't mean to speak, but she's glad she did. Boldly, perhaps, driven by a desire for comfort, Clarke pulls her legs up and slowly leans to the side until her head is pillowed comfortably in Lexa's lap.

“I just want this,” Clarke says. “Forever.” It's as close as she can come to saying how she really feels when the word sticks in her throat.

Lexa has no such reservations. “Soon, my love,” she says, and strokes Clarke's hair behind her ear. Clarke sighs, her heart thumping fast. She doesn't know how Lexa isn't as exhausted as she is, but to be fair Lexa _has_ been sleeping for almost two days straight and Clarke almost died in a cave-in. She thinks for once she's earned the right to bitch about how exhausted she is. At least she knows Lexa will listen and won't judge. Her nails scratch lightly against Clarke's scalp. “Sleep.”

And she does.

 


End file.
